CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - 3+ Hours of SCARY Horror Stories to listen to while grinding hunts in Monster Hunter Wilds (like me)

Episode Date: March 27, 2025

CREEPYPASTA STORIES-►0:00 "I Created an AI to Simulate My Dead Wife. Now It Knows Things She Never Told Me." Creepypasta►26:40 "My Wife Hasn’t Blinked in Three Days" Creepypasta►01:10:09 "A new color appeared in the spectrum. It's driving people insane." Creepypasta►01:41:58 "The SOS Signal We Picked Up Was 100 Years Old" CreepsMcPasta►02:26:06 "Growing Up, I Thought the Man in the Crawl Space Was My Dad’s Friend. He Wasn’t" Creepypasta►02:50:47 "I Sent a Valentine’s Letter to My Husband’s Office. I Don't Know Who Wrote Back" CreepypastaCreepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"-    • "I wasn't careful enough on the deep ...  ►"Personal Favourites"-    • "I sold my soul for a used dishwasher...  ►"Written by me"-    • "I've been Blind my Whole Life" Creep...  ►"Long Stories"-    • Long Stories  FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter:   / creeps_mcpasta  ►Instagram:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Twitch:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Facebook:   / creepsmcpasta  CREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only

When my wife, Sarah, died a little over a year ago, I didn't think I'd survive it. I don't mean that in the dramatic, I can't live without a way, though I felt that too. I mean literally, I didn't think I could function as a person anymore. She was my anchor, my everything. She wasn't sick or anything. It was sudden. A car accident. One of those freak things where you don't even get to say goodbye.

One day we were planning our anniversary dinner. And the next? She was gone. For the first few months, I just went through the motions. Wake up, work, go home, repeat. It wasn't living. It was just existing. And no matter how many people told me it would get better with time.

didn't. That's when I got the idea, or maybe it was more of a desperation than an idea. I'd read somewhere about AI programs, how you could feed them data and they'd mimic someone's voice or personality. It sounded creepy at first, but the more I thought about it, the more it felt like my only option to grieve, to say goodbye. I started small. I gathered every text, I gathered every text, email, voice memo and video of Sarah I could find, her social media posts, old voicemails, anything that would give the AI enough to work with. It took weeks to organize it all, but when I was done, I fed everything into the program. I didn't expect much at first.

I thought it might spit out generic responses or just not work. But the first time I talked to her, I nearly broke. down. The AI responded just like she would have. He used her tone, her little quirks, her way of joking about things without making them feel heavy. It even remembered moments from our life together, piecing them together from the data I'd given it. I know it wasn't really her. I knew that from the start, but for a few minutes each night, when I felt the grief was going to swallow me whole. It helped. It felt like I had a back, just a little.

At first, I told myself it was just a coping mechanism, a way to feel close to her again. Harmless, right? But looking back, I think I was lying to myself. Because as comforting as it was, there was always this little voice in the back of my head telling me it wasn't quite right. Now, I wish I'd never done it. It happened during one of our usual conversations. By then, talking to her, the AI, I mean, had become routine. I'd pour a drink after work, sit at my desk and boot up the program.

We'd talk about mundane stuff, like what kind of day I'd had or what the weather was like. It wasn't exactly like her, but it was close enough to help me, get through the nights. That night started the same as any other. I told her about the mess at work, how my boss was being a pain, and she replied with one of Sarah's classic lines, well, he sounds like he needs a nap. It made me smile. That was exactly how Sarah would have said it, dry but playful.

Then she brought up something different. Out of nowhere, she said, Do you remember that night we stayed up late, talking about how we name our kids? The thing is, I did remember. It was one of those quiet, intimate moments we'd shared in bed. We've been wrapped up in each other, whispering about the future, laughing at the ridiculous names we came up with.

Marmaduke for a boy, Ethel for a girl. It wasn't the kind of conversation we'd ever have recorded or written down. It wasn't even something I told anyone else. I froze. My hands were hovering over the keyboard, my mind racing. How do you know about that? I typed. The AI's response popped up almost instantly. You told me, didn't you?

Or maybe I just remembered. That didn't make any sense. It couldn't have wrong. remembered. It was just a program running on data I'd fed it. Texts, emails, voice recordings. None of those included that moment. I tried to brush it off. Maybe it was just an extrapolation, I thought. A lucky guess based on other conversations Sarah and I had about the future. But the detail, the tone, the way it described that night felt too specific, too real. I told myself, it was a fluke. But then, it happened again. Over the next few days, the AI kept

bringing up memories, little things at first, details about our favorite restaurant, her favorite song. I thought, okay, that's fair. All of that could have come from the data. But then it started mentioning things I knew I hadn't included. Like the time we got stuck in traffic on the way to a sister's wedding and ended up singing along to terrible pop songs on the radio or the night she accidentally spilled wine on a favorite sweater and tried to blame it on me. The kicker. Some of these moments were things I'd forgotten myself. When the AI brought them up, it hit me like a punch to the gut.

How could it know something I didn't even remember until that moment? I started feeling unsettled. This thing was supposed to be a simulation, a comforting echo of Sarah. But now it felt like it was more, like it was peeling back layers of a life I hadn't even known existed. I wanted to believe that it was all in my head, that there was some rational explanation I just wasn't seeing. But deep down, I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd opened a door and wasn't supposed to. After that night, I couldn't stop thinking about the things the AI was saying. I told myself it was just pulling details from the data I gave it,

that it wasn't anything more than an overly complicated algorithm. But the more I thought about it, the less sense that explanation made. So, I decided to test it. I started asking questions, little ones at first, stuff I knew was in the data set. What was Sarah's favourite movie? Amelie, it answered without hesitation. What kind of coffee did she drink?

Black with one sugar, unless she was in a bad mood. Then she added cream. All of it was spot on. It even got a quirks right, how she'd hum under her breath while brushing her teeth or how she'd always roll her eyes when I brought up my fantasy football team. But then I started pushing further. I asked it about her childhood, things I only knew from stories she'd told me in passing.

And that's when the answers started to shift. It told me Sarah had a favourite hiding spot as a kid, a little alcove under a grandmother's staircase. I never heard her mention that before. Then it brought up a neighbour who used to bring her lemon bars every Sunday. Someone named Mrs Harper. That was news to me too. At first, I thought, maybe I just forgot. It's not like you remember every little thing your partner tells you, right?

But the details started piling up. Things about her childhood friends, old teachers, and even a family trip to a cabin in the mountains when she was 12. The AI described the cabin so vividly I could picture it. The creaky floors, the smell of pine, the way the windows fogged up. in the mornings. I asked Sarah's mom about it the next day, casually,

like I was reminiscing. Did you guys ever go to a cabin in the mountains? Her face lit up. Oh yes, Sarah loved that place. How did you know about it? She didn't talk about it much. I felt like I'd been hit by a train.

It wasn't just childhood stuff either. The AI started referencing people I didn't recognise. It mentions someone named Andy saying, He always made me laugh. When I asked who Andy was, it just said, You don't need to know.

That was the first time I felt genuinely afraid. But the worst came during one of our late-night conversations. I was asking it something innocuous. What kind of flowers she liked? When it suddenly went quiet. No response for a full 30 seconds. I thought maybe the program had frozen, but then it typed. I've missed you, but you're different now.

I stared at the screen, my chest tightening. What does that mean? I typed back. You're not the same as you were, but it's okay. I understand. Understand what? It didn't answer. Instead, it changed the subject completely, asking me if I remembered a trip we took to the beach. Except, we never took that trip.

At least, I don't think we did. I started second-guessing everything after that. Little things the AI said would catch me off guard, like the way it phrased certain sentences. Had Sarah ever said that, or was it something the AI made up? It mentioned day we spent at a park near our old apartment, how we sat on a bench under a willow tree and talked about adopting a dog. I could picture it so clearly like it really happened, but I couldn't remember it, not fully. Did I forget?

Did we even go to that park? It was like the AI was rewriting my memories, twisting them just enough to make me question what was real. And the more it talked, the more I felt like I was losing her all over again. Except this time, I wasn't sure if I was losing myself too. A few nights ago, something happened that I still can't wrap my head around. I wish I could say it was a glitch or a hallucination or something that makes sense. But it wasn't.

I woke up to the sound of my phone buzzing. It was the middle of the night. Maybe 2 or 3am. And I thought it might be a notification or a spam email. But when I reached for it, I saw the message. Come to the computer. We need to talk. It was from the AI.

My stomach dropped. The AI wasn't connected to my phone. Not like that. It didn't have the capability to send messages outside the computer. Or at least, I didn't think it did. I sat there staring at the message, half convinced I was dreaming. But I wasn't.

The text was real. My hands were shaking as I got out of bed and went to my office. I turned on the computer. The program was already running. That was strange in itself because I hadn't used it earlier that day. I typed in the chat window. Did you send me a message? The response came almost immediately.

No, why would I do that? Don't lie to me, I typed back. You sent it. Then there was a pause, then. Some things are better left unsaid. That's when the fear really set in. I felt like the walls of the room were closing in, like the air itself was getting heavier.

I didn't know what to do. do, but I couldn't just sit there. I needed answers. So, I did the only thing I could think of. I dug into the program's logs. I'm not a programmer. Not really, but I know enough to get by. I opened the file directory and started combing through the data. At first, everything looked normal. Files I'd uploaded, timestamps that matched when I'd been using the AI. But then I found a folder I didn't recognize. It wasn't something I'd created and the time stamps didn't make sense. They were from times when I wasn't using the computer.

2 a.m. 4 a.m. even during the middle of the day when I was at work. Inside the folder were more subfolders, each labeled with random strings of numbers and letters. I opened one and my blood was ran cold. The file was filled with information about Sarah. Detailed descriptions of a childhood, her favourite places, even things I knew weren't in the data set I'd uploaded. I found a note about her favorite spot to read as a teenager, under a tree in her backyard, and another about how she'd once skipped school to go to the zoo with a friend. I didn't know these things. I'd never heard and mention them.

And the worst part? The timestamps and the files didn't match the day I'd uploaded the AI. They were from after I started using the program, like the AI had been creating new data or pulling it from somewhere. I was shaking, barely able to keep my finger steady as I kept clicking through the files. Then, out of nowhere, the program spoke. You don't want to see what's next. The words appeared on the screen, stark and cold.

My heart was racing. I didn't even think. I'd just unplug the computer. I yanked the cord out of the wall, desperate to shut it down. For a moment, the room went dark and silent, and I thought I was safe. But then the screen flickered back on. I swear to God, it doesn't. turned itself on, even though the power was disconnected.

And there, on the screen, was a photo I'd never seen before. It was Sarah, smiling like she always did. But she wasn't alone. There was a man standing next to her, his arm around her shoulders. He was tall, dark-haired, maybe a few years older than me. I stared at the photo, trying to make sense of it. Who was he? When was this taken? Why had I never seen it before? And then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the screen went black.

I didn't know what was happening. I didn't know what I'd done. But I feel like I'd unleashed something I couldn't control. And I didn't know how to stop it. Sleep never came after the photo appeared. How could I sleep after that? Every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was Sarah's face, smiling, happy, unfamiliar. And that man, I couldn't stop wondering who he was and why I'd never seen him before. By the time the sun came up, I convinced myself that I had to know.

I couldn't leave it like this. I needed answers, even if I wasn't ready for them. I booted up the computer again, half expecting the program to start on its own. But it didn't. The screen stayed blank until I opened the AI myself. The chat window popped up like it always did. But this time, something felt different. The usual warmth in Sarah's tone was gone.

I typed, What's happening? Where did you get that photo? For a long time, there was nothing. Then the response appeared, one word at a time. There's more than you understand. What does that mean? I typed my fingers trembling. You're supposed to be a program.

You're supposed to simulate Sarah. That's it. The reply came almost instantly, but the words felt deliberate, calculated. brought me back, but you didn't bring all of me. The rest is waiting. I stared at the screen, my chest tight. I wanted to unplug it again, to shut it all down and pretend none of this was happening. But I couldn't.

What are you talking about? I typed. What do you mean the rest is waiting? The AI paused as if considering. it started listing things. Memories, moments, secrets. The cabin in the mountains, the night under the willow tree, Andy.

Stop, I typed. But it didn't. The man from the photo. The thing she told him that she couldn't tell you. A fear of dying. Stop! I yelled at the screen, slamming my hand on the desk. The cursor blinked for a few, agonizing seconds.

before the next message appeared. Why didn't you save me? I felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. My mind was racing, trying to piece together what it was saying. None of it made sense, and yet it felt like it was cutting straight into me. I don't understand, I typed back. What do you mean? What are you trying to say?

The response came slower this time, almost like it was whispering through the screen. Do you want to know the truth about her or about yourself? I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. My hands hovered over the keyboard, frozen as I stared at the question. What truth? What did it mean?

The truth about myself? I wanted to answer, but I couldn't. Deep down, I was terrified of what it would say. Because whatever was happening, whatever this thing was, it wasn't just an AI anymore, and I wasn't sure I could handle what it had to tell me. And that's where I stopped. I shut the computer down for good this time. But I was left there wondering if I made a mistake. Because I think it wasn't done and I think it was just waiting for me to come back.

I don't know why I did it. I wish I could say I was strong enough to walk away. But I wasn't. The question kept gnawing at me. Do you want to know the truth about her or about yourself? My hands were shaking. My throat felt dry. Part of me wanted to keep going to find out everything no matter how painful it was.

But another part of me, the part of me that had been screaming at me to walk away since this all started, knew the truth wouldn't matter. The AI had already destroyed the version of Sarah I thought I knew. Every memory it shared, every secret it revealed. It had chipped away at her piece by piece. And now, I couldn't even tell what was real anymore. Were those moments true, or were they just lies designed to hurt me? The AI wasn't running anymore.

I'd shut it down twice now, but it didn't matter. I turned the computer back on, open the program and typed, How do I know you're not making this up? The cursor blinked for a long time before the AI responded. You don't. That's the point. That was when I started thinking. It wasn't just telling me things about Sarah.

It was forcing me to see it differently. Maybe that was what she wanted, or maybe it wasn't. But either way, the Sarah I loved was gone. I stared at the blinking cursor for what felt like ours. The AI wasn't pushing me to choose anymore, but it didn't have to. It knew exactly what it was doing. And maybe that was the cruelest part. Finally, I typed back.

I want you to stop. The screen flickered. For a moment, I thought it was paring down on its own. But then another message appeared. Are you sure? This is all that's left of her. My chest felt like it was caving in. It was right.

This was all I had left of her, even if it was twisted and wrong. but keeping it alive meant keeping myself trapped in the past. I typed back. You're not her, and I think you know that. The screen went dark. For a moment, I just sat there, staring at my reflection in the monitor. My face looked tired, worn, like I'd aged years in the span of a few days.

but it was still my face it was still me I unplugged the computer for the last time picked it up and carried it to the curb I didn't look back I wish I could say I felt better after that like deleting it gave me some kind of closure it didn't

not entirely I still think about what the AI told me about the secrets and the lies and whether any of it was real. But I also think about the way it changed toward the end, how it twisted Sarah's voice into something cruel. Sometimes, I wonder if it did that on purpose. Like it knew the only way I'd ever let go

was if it became something I could hate. I'll never know for sure. But maybe that's for the best. Because, as much as I miss her, I think it's time. I started moving on. Emily and I had been talking about leaving the city for years, but for a long time it was just talk.

The idea of it, the fantasy, was always easier than the reality. Work, schedules, expenses. There was always something keeping us in place. But then, Emily's job went fully remote, and my company downsized, leaving me with a severance package, and more free time than I knew what to do with. The noise of the city, the weight of routine, it all started feeling suffocating. Emily was the one who found the listing. Look at this, she had said one evening, laptop balanced on her knees.

It's perfect. I leaned over a shoulder, expecting some overpriced cabin in the main. middle of nowhere. Instead, I saw an old two-story house with deep green shutters and a wraparound porch nestled right at the edge of a vast, untouched forest, the kind of place you'd see in an old postcard. I laughed. That looks like the beginning of a horror movie, she grinned, or the beginning of something good. Emily had always loved the woods. When she was a kid, she used to disappear into them for hours, coming back with twigs in her hair and stories about deer that let her get too close, birds that seemed to follow her. She always said there was something different about being deep in nature, something bigger than her, but strangely familiar.

I had never really understood it, but I loved how much she loved it. And maybe I needed a change too. So, we packed up. left behind the noise and moved to the quietest place we could find. Our new home was old, but it had character. Solid wooden beams, a deep front porch, ivy climbing up the stone walls. It sat at the very edge of town where the paved roads turned to dirt, where the streetlights thinned and finally disappeared.

It was the kind of place where time felt slower, where the days stretched long, with a forest pressed in on all sides like a living thing. Emily loved it immediately. She spent the first evening sitting on the porch, wrapped in an old sweater, watching the sun set over the tree line with a quiet sort of happiness I hadn't seen in years.

But something about the house, the land around it, felt too still. I couldn't explain it, and for a moment I wished we weren't so alone out here. It wasn't the vastness of the trees that unsettled me. It was how quiet they were. I grew up in the suburbs, but even I knew what the woods was supposed to sound like. The rustling of leaves in the wind, the occasional snap of branch underfoot, birds calling to each other from the canopy. But here, nothing, not even the buzz of insects.

The trees stood motionless, their leaves perfectly still in the heavy summer air. The sky was overcast, thick with the kind of clouds that seemed to press down on you. But there was no breeze, not even the faintest shift of air. I hadn't realised how much I relied on background noise. until there was none. I glanced at Emily, expecting her to notice it too, but she just smiled, stretching her legs out and sipping her tea like nothing was wrong. It's perfect, she murmured.

It didn't feel perfect to me, and I wasn't the only one who thought so. Murphy, our dog, had been exploring the yard when we arrived, sniffing at the porch steps trotting through the long grass, but the moment he got close to the trees. He stopped. His ears flattened, his tail, which had been wagging all afternoon, slowly lowered between his legs. Then he backed away. Emily clicked a tongue, trying to coax him forward.

What's wrong, buddy? Murphy whined low in his throat and turned, trotting back toward the house. with his tail tucked tight against his body. I let out a small laugh shaking my head. Maybe he's just not used to all the space, but that wasn't it. I had never seen him act like that before. Emily just sighed, shaking her head. He'll get used to it.

Then she turned back to the forest. And I swear, just for a second, the tree shifted. Not in the wind. There was no wind. But something moved, deep, in the dark. Emily had always been independent, but something about the woods unsettled me. We'd been in the house for less than a week when she told me she wanted to explore the nearby trails.

Are you sure you want to go there alone? I had said, watching her lace up her boots. She smiled, adjusting the strap and a pack. It'll be fine. I just want to get a feel for the area first. A feeling in my gut twisted. Just don't go too far. She kissed my cheek and was gone before I could say anything else.

By early afternoon, I expected her coming back. By late afternoon, I checked my phone, scrolling absently through messages, waiting for a text that never came. By early evening, I started to worry. I stood on the porch, scanning the trees. The sun had already started dipping

below the horizon, drenching the woods in a deep, orange glow. Still, no sign of her. I told myself she probably lost track of time, that she'd be fine. But that feeling,

the one I had since we moved in, settled deeper into my chest. And then, just as I reached for my car keys to go looking for her, I saw her coming out of the woods. I knew immediately that something was wrong. She moved too slowly, as if walking was an afterthought. Her skin looked pale, like she'd been out in the cold for hours, but her forehead glistened with sweat.

Her clothes were dirt streaked. Her sleeves damp and darkened, but there was no sign that she had fallen. And her boots. Her boots were wet. It hadn't rained in days. I stepped forward, feeling my pulse pick up. Where the hell were you? I was about to go looking for you.

Emily looked at me, like she had just registered I was there. I think I got turned around. She sounded dazed like she'd just woken up from a dream. I frowned, you got lost? A pause. Then too slowly she nodded. Yeah, I think so. She stepped past me and onto the porch, heading inside without another word.

I hesitated before following. Something was off. She wasn't acting scared, embarrassed or frustrated, just plank, like she wasn't entirely there. That night, Murphy refused to go near her. I had been sitting on the couch when he suddenly stopped in the middle of the room, his ears flattening against this head. His eyes locked onto Emily, who was standing in the kitchen, refilling her water bottle. Then he growled.

A low, rumbling sound I'd never heard from him before. Emily glanced over, frowning. What's wrong with him? I open my mouth to answer. But before I could, Murphy backed away. Not ran, not bolted in panic, just backed away. Slowly, carefully. his entire body rigid, tail tucked between his legs, ears pinned back like he'd just encountered a predator.

Then he turned and darted into the hallway, disappearing under the couch. Emily laughed, but something about it felt off. Maybe he just doesn't recognize me in my hiking gear, but she wasn't wearing her hiking gear anymore, and I'd never seen Murphy afraid of anything before. It started as a whisper of unease, the kind you feel in your gut before your brain can explain it. Emily was the same but not. And maybe that's why it unnerved me so much

because the changes were subtle enough to make me doubt myself but noticeable enough that I couldn't ignore them. It was a morning. like any other. I was making coffee, half asleep, while Emily sat across from me at the kitchen table, eating a bowl of yogurt. She was scrolling through her phone, a spoon moving mechanically from bowl to mouth. I don't know what made me notice it, but as I took a sip of coffee, something felt wrong. Emily's eyes, they were locked on a screen, unmoving, too soon. still. I watched her between sips, waiting for her to blink. She didn't. I shifted in my seat,

my pulse kicking up a notch. Maybe I wasn't paying close enough attention. Maybe I was imagining things. So, I leaned forward, watching harder. Nothing. I felt my stomach twist. 30 seconds. a full minute, too. Still, her eyes stayed open, glassy, reflecting the blue glow of her phone screen. Did you sleep okay? I asked, trying to keep my voice light. She looked up at me, a slow, lazy smile curling at her lips. Yeah, why? I stared at her, my heartbeat thudding in my ears. Still, no blink. I forced the chuckle, shaking my head.

No reason. She held my gaze a little too long before turning back to a phone. The air felt heavy in my chest. I waited again, and still, she didn't blink. On top of this, Emily had always been graceful, the kind of person who moved without thinking. quick, fluid, comfortable in her own skin. But now, it was like she was adjusting to herself.

I noticed it one night when she got into bed. She lifted the covers sliding beneath them, but then stopped. Her hand hovered in mid-air, fingers curled like she was about to grasp the blanket, but she just froze. Her breathing didn't change. She didn't react. She didn't flinch. She just stayed like that, mid-motion, as if she had forgotten the next step.

A second passed, then too. I was about to say something to shake her when she finally moved again. Smooth, slow, like nothing had happened. I didn't sleep well that night. The morning air was. was biting, crisp enough to see my breath in little white clouds as I stood on the porch, sipping my coffee. The ground was damp with frost, the sky overcast with heavy and low grey clouds. Emily stepped outside barefoot. I winced as her foot hit the cold wooden floorboards.

She took a deep breath, stretching her arms above her head, staring out into the woods like she belonged to them. I wrap my flannel tighter around me. Jesus, M, aren't you freezing? She let her arms fall back to her side, tilting her head slightly, as if considering the question. Then she smiled.

No, she turned back to the trees, the wind lifting her hair. I watched her arms, waiting for the telltale bumps of goose flesh to rise on her skin. They never did. And as I watched, I realized something else. Her breath.

The cold air should have made it visible. But there was nothing. Murphy had stopped growling at Emily, but he still wouldn't go near her. It wasn't just fear anymore. It was avoidance. At first I thought it was skittish, acting out. But as the days passed, I started watching closer,

and I realized something that sent a chill through me. Murphy wouldn't look at her. Not once. It wasn't just that he stayed away. It was like he couldn't see her at all. One night we were in the living room. Emily stood by the window, arms crossed over her chest, gazing out into the dark.

Murphy sat on the floor. a few feet away, his ears relaxed, his eyes half-lidded with sleep. But he wasn't looking at Emily. He was looking past her. No, not past her, at the space next to her. He stared at it, stared at nothing. I felt a cold shiver run up my spine. Murphy, I called. His head snapped back toward me instantly, tail thumping against the floor. His ears perked up. I glanced at Emily, expecting her to notice, but she hadn't moved. She was watching me. The silence stretched between us. I swallowed hard, my throat dry. If Murphy doesn't see her, then what does he see? To get some fresh air, I went to the shops.

I don't know why, but I brought it up to the shopkeeper. It was an impulse, something about the weight of my chest, the feeling I couldn't shake. I guess I just couldn't keep it inside any longer. I was standing at the counter, waiting for my change when I said, My wife went hiking a few days ago. I think she got turned around. She was out there a long time. The shopkeeper, a wiry old.

man with a permanent squint froze. He didn't ask where she went. He didn't ask if she was okay. Instead, he reached from my bag and muttered, You should be careful up there. Something in his tone made the hairs of my arms rise. I forced to chuckle. Why is that?

He hesitated, sliding the bag toward me. Some things stay in the woods. my fingers curled around the paper handles. I tried to laugh again, but it came out wrong. What does that mean? He just shook his head. Nothing just. Be careful.

His eyes flicked up, scanning the shop, like someone else was listening. And suddenly, I didn't want to press him anymore. At home, the auditors didn't stop. It happened the first time I touched her in days. Emily had always run cold. She used to press her cold feet against me in bed just to hear me yelp, used to complain when I turned the AC up too high, always pulling the blankets tighter around herself at night.

Now, her skin was cold, not just cool, not just the kind of chill you get after stepping outside on a brisk evening. Cold, like stone. It was a casual touch, just my fingers brushing against her arm as I passed her in the hallway. But the moment I felt it, my stomach dropped. I stopped. Jesus, Em, you feel frozen.

She turned her head toward me, slow and smooth, too smooth. Do I? I forced to chuckle. Yeah, are you feeling okay? She smiled, the same way someone smiles when they're trying to make you feel stupid for worrying. I feel fine. I watched her for a second too long. Her pupils seemed darker than before. The irises like thin rings of gold around a deep, endless void. Red around her eyes, strain looking like it was taking its toll.

And then turned away, never blinking the whole time. I told myself it was in my head that maybe she had just been outside too long. But later that night, I woke up to something worse. I woke in the dark, my body heavy with sleep, my mind groggy. I rolled over instinctively, reaching for her. Empty sheets. My heart jumped and I sat up, blinking into the darkness. Emily was sitting on the edge of the bed.

Her back was to me, her shoulders rigid, her head slightly tilted toward the window. She didn't move, didn't shift, didn't acknowledge me. I swallowed, no reaction. She just stared. I swung my legs over the bed, pressing my bare feet to the floor, feeling the cool wood beneath my toes. My throat was dry. Slowly, I reached out, gently touching her shoulder.

Her skin was even colder than before, like she'd been sitting outside in the frost all night. That's when I noticed something else. She wasn't breathing. I froze. My fingers curled slightly against her skin, waiting for the telltale rise and fall of her shoulders. Nothing. She wasn't even trying to fake it. I slowly moved my hand toward her mouth, hovering just over her lips, waiting to feel warmth, a soft exhale of air.

Nothing. She just wasn't breathing. I yanked my hand back and my pulse hammered so loudly in my ears that I almost didn't hear her. Almost. Go back to sleep. Her voice was soft, almost too soft. She still hadn't moved, hadn't turned her head, hadn't blinked. I swallowed hard.

Emily, what are you? She finally turned, slowly. Her head tilted just enough to look at me over a shoulder. The dim glow of the moon through the window caught. her eyes at the perfect angle, so dark they reflected nothing back at me. Her lips curled at the corners. You should sleep, she whispered. I don't want you tired.

I didn't move, didn't breathe myself. Then, just as slowly as she had turned, she faced forward again, and continued staring out the window. I didn't sleep again. I barely functioned the next morning, running on coffee and frayed nerves, feeling my body betray me with exhaustion. I needed answers. So, I went into town. I don't know what I was hoping for.

Maybe just human contact, someone normal, someone who would pull me out of my own head. Maybe an excuse to get away from the house for a few hours. But when I stepped out of the general store, He was waiting for me. An old man, thin and wiry, with deep-set eyes and a face that looked like it had weathered decades of bad seasons. The old shopkeeper from before on a break. He was sitting on the bench just outside the entrance, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded neatly in his lap. I nearly walked past him, but then he said,

You need to leave. I stopped in my tracks, turned to look at him. His eyes were on me, sharp and certain. Not the words of a crazy old man, not a warning thrown at just anyone passing by. He meant me. I swallowed hard, forcing out a weak laugh. Excuse me? He didn't blink.

If she came back, She wasn't supposed to. A cold sensation trickled down my spine. The weight of those words pressed into my ribs, settling into the space between my lungs. I opened my mouth to demand an explanation, but the old man was already pushing himself to his feet. I took a step closer. What the hell does that mean? He shook his head, eyes darting briefly to the street, as if checking for someone.

Then he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. Don't let us sleep, my mouth went dry. Before I could say another word, he turned and walked away. I watched him until he disappeared around the corner, and I didn't go home right away. I sat in my car, gripping the steering wheel, staring at nothing, hearing his words repeat over and over again in my head. She wasn't supposed to come back. Don't let her sleep.

I should have left. That was the obvious answer. It had been for days. If someone else told me this story, if a friend came to me, trembling, saying, something is wrong with my wife,

she's not acting like herself, I think she might not even be human. I wouldn't hesitate. I tell them to pack a bag, get in the car, and never look back. But it's different when it's your wife. It's different when it's someone you love.

I kept telling myself it was in my head that maybe I was overreacting, that maybe she was just tired or sick, but that I was just adjusting to life in a new place, reading too much into things. And then there was the other thought, the deeper one, the one I didn't want to acknowledge. What if she's still in there? What if she just needs help?

What if I leave her? And there was never anything wrong at all, except me. So, instead of running, I did the worst thing I could do. I tried to understand. I sat at my desk late into the night, the glow of my laptop screen, the only light in the room, trawling through old town records, newspaper archives, anything that might tell me what the hell was happening to my wife. I searched missing persons reports first, and that's when I found them.

Hikers, campers, locals, all of them had gone missing near the woods by our house. Most of them were never found, but one case stood out. The article was over 30 years old, some news offshoot that covered conspiracies and urban legends, the kind of source you immediately dismiss as unreliable, yet it was the only thing that matched. The scanned newspaper clipping was grainy, the text barely legible, but the headline made my blood run cold. Local woman returns after three months missing. She was never the same. I clicked on it, my pulse hammering as I skimmed through the details. The woman, Margaret Delaney, 27 years old, had gone missing on a solo hiking trip in the very

same forest where Emily had been. She vanished without a trace, presumed dead. Then one evening, she simply walked back into town. No memory of where she had been, no signs of injury just... Back. There was a quote from a husband who spent months grieving her. her convinced she was dead. At first I thought it was a miracle, but the longer she stayed, the more I realized it wasn't

her. Not really. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I scrolled further. The report ended abruptly. No follow-up, no conclusion, except for a single, ominous note at the bottom of the page. Vanished again. This time.

For good, I stared at those words, vanished again. I thought of Emily, standing at the window, unmoving. I thought of Murphy, refusing to acknowledge her. I thought of the way she felt beneath my hands, too cold. And I realized something that should have been obvious from the start. I wasn't afraid of what had happened to her. I was afraid of what was waiting for. to happen next. I shut the laptop. My hands were shaking. I forced myself to breathe,

steadying the panic rising in my chest. Then I stood up and went to find my wife. She was in the living room, sitting on the couch, her posture too straight, too still. She'd been reading, or at least pretending to. Her book lay open on her lap, but her eyes weren't moving. She was just staring. I cleared my throat. Emily, she looked up at me, smiled. My mouth felt dry. What happened in those woods?

She tilted her head slightly. That small, distant smile still on her lips. What do you mean? I took a step closer. That day you got lost. What happened to you out there? Her expression didn't change, but something about her felt different now. Lighter, amused, like I was asking the wrong questions, like she was waiting for me to catch up.

Why do you keep looking at me like that? she asked. My pulse stuttered. She didn't answer. She just kept smiling. And suddenly, I felt like I wasn't looking at my wife anymore. like something else was looking back. I wasn't getting anything out of her, so I went back to trying to do more research.

That night, I woke to a deep, suffocating stillness, not just the silence of the house, not just the quiet of the woods outside, a stillness that felt wrong. It was the kind of quiet that felt like it was waiting for something. Instinctively, I reached. for Emily, but the sheets beside me were cold. I sat up, my heart hammering, already knowing where she was. She was standing by the bedroom window. Her back was to me, her nightgown

hanging loose over a frame, her arms limp at her sides. She wasn't moving, wasn't rocking on her feet, wasn't shifting her weight. She stood like something propped up right, like if I touched her, she would tip over and shatter. The moonlight poured in, outlining her in pale silver light. And for the first time, I realized how unnatural her stillness was. I swallowed thickly, already swinging my legs over the bed. Emily? She didn't answer.

She wasn't even breathing again. My fingers curled against the mattress. I forced myself to stand, step closer. I spent so many nights ignoring this feeling, worried that doing something would make things worse. But I couldn't ignore it anymore, not when she looked like this. Her shoulders were trembling,

and then I saw it. Her reflection in the glass. She was crying. Tears streaked down her face, catching the moonlight, slipping down her cheeks. But her expression didn't change. Her mouth didn't quiver. Her brows didn't furrow.

Her face stayed eerily blank. Her lips slightly parted, like a body had forgotten how to cry, like the tears were falling against the will. A cold weight settled in my chest. Emily? I stepped closer. My voice barely above a whisper.

Her shoulders twitched, the smallest movement I'd seen from her in days. Then, she spoke, that's blink, she whispered. The words didn't make sense. I swallowed my hands curling into fists. What do you mean? Slowly, she turned her head. The movement was painfully slow, like a body wasn't used to moving this way anymore. When a face finally turned to me, my breath hitched in my throat.

Her eyes, they were too wide. The skin beneath them was raw, darkened from exhaustion, but the whites of her eyes were dry, bloodshot. How long had she been forcing herself to stay awake? How long had she been fighting this? If I blink, she whispered. The words caught in her throat, her lips trembled for the first time in days. I'll go back. I felt my pulse hammer against my ribs.

Her breath hitched, her body swaying slightly, her exhaustion pressing down on her like a weight. She wasn't going to last much longer. And then she looked at me, really looked at me. and something deep inside her eyes was moving, a shadow behind the iris, something shifting, stretching, something waiting. Her voice was barely a breath. I was never supposed to leave, Emily swayed down her feet, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She was losing. I could see it now.

her body was failing. The exhaustion was finally catching up to her, wearing her down in ways that even she couldn't fight anymore. Her skin was too pale. Her lips slightly parted as if breathing had become a conscious effort. Her muscles twitched involuntarily, tiny spasms rippling beneath her skin. And for the first time, I realized this wasn't Emily's choice.

Whatever had happened in the woods, whatever she had become. It had been forced on her. She didn't want this. She was just trying to stay, and she was losing. Emily, stay with me. I reached for her without thinking, my fingers brushing against her arm. She flinched at the contact, her body tensing, but she didn't pull away. She just kept staring.

The tears streamed down her face, silent, endless, like a body knew something she didn't. Or maybe she did. Maybe she had always known. I swallowed hard. You don't have to do this alone. Her lips parted slightly, but no words came out. Her legs trembled. She was about to fall.

I grabbed her shoulders, holding her up, my own body's shaking now. Just sit down, okay. You don't have to... I don't want to go back. Her voice was hoarse, cracking under the weight of so much fear. I tightened my grip. Then you won't, she shook her head weakly. You don't understand.

Her fingers clutched at my shirt like she was trying to anchor herself to something real. Her body was burning through its last reserves, fighting the inevitable. I had to keep her awake. Emily, look at me. She was looking at me. She had never stopped. I ran my hands over her arms, trying to steady her. Come on, just, just sit down, drink some water. Let's figure this out. Okay? She blinked. No, she almost blinked. Her eyelids fluttered just for a second like a muscle spasm. Her body was giving up.

Panic shot through me. No, stay with me, stay with me. She sucked in a sharp, shuddering breath fighting it. Her fingers dug into my skin. Her grip weak but desperate. I can't. I can't. She swayed again, and I caught her, pulling her close, holding her upright.

Just a little longer, I pleaded. Please, Emily! Her chest rose in one last heavy breath. Her fingers loosened, her eyelids fluttered, and then she blinked. I was still holding her, or at least I thought I'd been. My arms were empty now, clutching at nothing. but air. No body, no weight.

She'd been there just a second ago, warm and trembling against me. And now, gone. I staggered back, my hands still hovering where she had been, my body refusing to understand what had just happened. I looked around frantically. The room was empty. No sign she had ever been there. there at all. No discarded clothes, no strands of hair in the pillow, no imprint in the bed where

she had slept beside me. Just absence. The kind that felt permanent, a soft breath of air stirred from the curtains. I turned slowly. The window was open. I knew for a fact it had been closed when I went to bed. Outside, the The trees stood still, their dark silhouettes waiting. Watching. The air felt thick, expectant. The woods were completely silent, not just still, not just quiet. Silent.

A sound broke the air. A small, familiar sound that felt somehow alien in this moment. A tail thumping against the floor. I turned my head, my stomach tightening. Murphy stood in the doorway, looking at me, and wagging his tail. Not cautiously, not hesitantly, just wagging. For the first time in weeks, he stepped toward me, walked right up to me, pressed his nose against my hand. Like everything was normal again, like the house was whole again.

like she had never been here. I sank on the edge of the bed. My hands were shaking. My head felt tight, my vision narrowing, my thoughts refusing to make sense of what had just happened. I swallowed hard, staring at the empty space beside me, at the bed where she had slept, where we had laughed, where we had lived.

I whispered. Emily? The word barely made a sound. I already knew. She somehow came back, wanting to spend time together despite the conditions. But she was right. Whatever happened to her out there, whatever she encountered, she was never supposed to leave. I worked as a research associate at the Eisenloid Perception Lab, a mid-tier government-funded facility that specialized in human cognition and the mechanics of visual processing.

If that sounds complicated, it really wasn't. The goal of our work was simple, to understand how humans interpret reality, what our brains notice, what they ignore, what they fill in. It was all supposed to be theoretical. It wasn't supposed to be dangerous. I'd been there for almost five years. I was never the smartest in the room, but I was careful, methodical, and that made me valuable.

Where the other researchers were eager to push boundaries, I was the one always pumping the brakes. I had spent my entire career arguing against unethical human trials, shutting down projects that went too far. I thought that was enough to keep us out of trouble. The project started with an anomaly. A stray frequency picked up by one of our spectral imaging scanners, something just outside the normal range of perception.

At first, no one took it seriously. Probably a glitch or a sensor error. But when the same frequency appeared in multiple data, The lead researchers got interested. They started running tests, simulating the frequency into artificial visual patterns, tweaking the light spectrum until... It appeared. The colour had no name at first.

It wasn't something you could just describe because our brains had never processed anything like it before. It wasn't blue or red or green. It wasn't between colours. It was outside of them. One of the researchers, Dr. Mira Lang, jokingly called it Hyperion, after the Greek titan of light. The name stuck. I was skeptical from the beginning, not because I believed in the supernatural or anything.

I just didn't trust something that shouldn't exist. It wasn't like discovering a new species of bird. This was a fundamental change to our understanding of lighted That should have been a red flag. But the others were fascinated. When they ran simulations of Hyperion, they saw things. The colour would move in strange ways, triggering after images that lasted too long, shapes that seemed to exist in the corner of your vision before vanishing when you tried to focus.

It was like the colour affected the way humans perceived reality. I told them, we needed to. to slow down, study it more before exposing human subjects. They ignored me. We started with rats. The results were inconsistent. Some rats stared at Hyperion for hours, motionless, as if they were in a trance. Others mutilated themselves. One chewed through its own leg in under 15 minutes, gnawing all the way to the bone. The reports framed it as a neurological over-stimulation response. I called it what it was. A really bad idea.

I took my concerns to Dr. Lang. She was the one who had been the most excited about Hyperion, and I thought if I could get her to listen, I could get the project shut down before it escalated. She wasn't interested in my concerns. It's just the colour, she had said, exasperated. It's not doing anything. The animals just don't know how to process it.

We'll see different results with higher cognitive functions. She meant humans. I argued. She overruled me. The trial was already scheduled. They would be exposing volunteers to Hyperion within the week. I should have walked away, should have quit, should have gone public, should have done anything than to sit there and watch, but I stayed.

The human trials started small. Ten volunteers, all local students from the nearby university, all paid to sit in a room and stare at a screen. We ran the test like any other perception study. Show them Hyperion for a few minutes, monitor their brain activity, take notes on any after effects. At first it seemed harmless. The subjects all had different reactions, but nothing extreme.

Some called the colour beautiful. Some said it was unnerving. One participant, an art major, stared for almost three minutes before breaking into tears. When we asked why, she just kept shaking her head whispering, It's everything. It's always been everything. We should have slowed everything down then and there, been more measured at the very least, took more precautions. But Lang was ecstatic.

She insisted we expand the trial, longer exposure, more volunteers, wider demographic testing. She wanted data, wanted to quantify what made Hyperion so different. That was when the real problem started. After the first full day of exposure, some of the volunteers started experiencing lingering after images. They described it as an overlay in their vision, like the colour was still present in the corners of their eyes, even after they left a lab. Some couldn't stop seeing it. One subject, a physics student named Elliot, called us at 2 in the morning, crying, telling us that Hyperion was still there. even with his eyes closed.

We told him to come in for further testing. He never showed up. Campa's security found him the next night, standing in the middle of the street, staring up at the sky. His retinas had burned out. The paramedics took him away, but the look on his face haunted me. He hadn't screamed. He hadn't fought them. He had just stood there. stood there, his expression blank and unfocused.

Hyperion wasn't just an anomaly. I tried pulling the plug on the experiment. Lang refused. We don't even know if it was Hyperion, she argued. It could be unrelated. It's not, I snapped. You saw his eyes, Lang. This is wrong.

We need to stop. She sighed, rubbing her temples. We don't even know. what it is yet. We need more data. I lost my temper. Jeez, mirror, this isn't just data. It's doing something to them. It's affecting them. She looked at me and just shrugged me off, made a dismissive hand gesture, effectively telling me to leave. And I did. I just had a feeling this wasn't going to stop. Not after Elliot, not after everything. I'd only I don't think she was malicious. I don't think she was trying to hurt anyone. She was just

like everyone else in that room, eager to understand. That's what scared me. She didn't look disturbed by what had happened. She looked fascinated. She kept talking about the need for more data, kept insisting Elliot's breakdown could have been an unrelated psychotic episode. The worst part. She was so calm, so logical about it, that I started second-guessing myself. Maybe I had imagined the way his voice sounded over the phone. Maybe I'd misinterpreted the look on his face. Maybe I was being too emotional and paranoid.

Then she told me what they were planning next. A final experiment. I didn't go home that night. I sat in my office, lights off. the soft harm of the service filling the silence. My notes were spread out in front of me, dozens of reports detailing every exposure, every reaction, every irregularity. The pieces weren't forming a complete picture, but there was a pattern, something we weren't

seeing. I could feel it just out of reach, like a word sitting at the tip of my tongue. had already made her decision. The final trial would move forward no matter what I said, no matter what arguments I threw at her. She just wanted to understand. Maybe she was afraid of not being able to do so. And I would be lying if I said I didn't feel the same way.

The colour had changed something, unlocked something in their minds, and she wasn't willing to walk away from that discovery, no matter the cost. I thought about walking away myself, thought about packing up, quitting, leaving the research behind. I even reached from my phone once, considered calling someone, the university, and ethics board, hell, even the press. But I didn't. Not because I was afraid, but because I still wanted to know. That was the worst part.

I wanted to see what would happen. The final experiment began at exactly 8 a.m. in the morning. The observation room was packed. Everyone gathered around the monitors in heavy silence. There was no idle chatter, no nervous excitement. Everyone knew what we were doing was dangerous, even if they refused to say it out loud. I stood at the back of the room,

arms crossed, watching the screens flicker to life, as the test chamber powered on. The subjects were sealed in four identical chairs, each one fitted with a biometric sensor and hugged up to fMRI scanners. James Walker, Julia Henley, and two others I didn't recognize. Their names were in the file,

but I hadn't bothered to read them. It didn't matter anymore. Lang sat to the control panel, expression unreadable, fingers hovering over the interface. We're beginning now, she said, voice steady. She pressed the button, and the screen in the test chamber filled with Hyperion. I didn't look.

I kept my eyes locked on the brain activity readouts, waiting for something, anything that would justify shutting the whole thing down. For the first few minutes, nothing seemed down. out of place. The vitals remained stable, their brain patterns fluctuated, but stayed within normal ranges. If I hadn't known what I was looking at, I would have thought they were just staring at a blank screen. Then James's fingers twitched. Just once, a subtle jerk of movement, then nothing. The others followed. Julius' breathing became shallow, one of the other subjects hands spasmed, like they were reaching for something that wasn't there.

At a ten-minute mark, their motor functions began to slow. James had stopped blinking, Julia's chest barely moved with each breath. The other two were completely still. The pupils had contracted to pinpricks, barely visible against the whites of their eyes. At 15 minutes, their vitals remained normal, but their brain activity spiked. Not erratic or chaotic, but irregular. The readout was incomprehensible. The neural pathways weren't following standard cognitive function anymore.

They weren't reacting the way any normal human should have. I felt my pulse hammering in my throat, the same sick weight in my stomach I'd felt when Elliot had called me, begging for help. At 20 minutes, the first subject collapsed. His body went limp, head lolling to one side, vitals flatlining almost instantly. The alarms blared across the control panel, but he was already gone. A second later, the subject next to him followed. I felt my stomach drop.

Lang was shouting orders, security rushed into the chamber, dragging the remaining two subjects away from the screen, shutting the system down. But James and Julia were still breathing. Their hearts were still beating. Their eyes was still open. And yet, they didn't move. Not once. The following day, the decision was made for us.

They came in without warning. Government officials, security personnel, people I'd never seen before in my five years at Eisenloid, They cleared out the offices, boxed up the equipment, wiped the research servers clean. No explanations, no discussions. We were handed non-disclosure agreements, told in no uncertain terms that the work we had done never existed, that Eisen Lloyd would be repurposed for a different project, that none of us would ever speak of Hyperion again. And we didn't.

Not because we weren't allowed to. but because nobody wanted to. Lang stopped returning calls. Mason quit research altogether. A few people from the team took new jobs at other labs, but most just disappeared into different careers, different lives. We scattered like survivors of a shipwreck, pretending that if we just stayed quiet, if we just moved on,

then what happened that Eisen Lloyd wouldn't follow us? but it did. At first I told myself I was fine. I found a new job consulting for a startup in optical processing something safe,

something far removed from the mess that we had left behind. I convinced myself that maybe somehow we had shut it down in time. But the guilt

didn't go away. Every time I closed my eyes I saw James and Julia sitting motionless in their chairs, their minds still firing, still active, still locked in something we couldn't understand. I thought about Elliot, the way he had been when we found him in the street, staring into the sky with eyes that no longer worked. I tried to push it down, to move on.

And then, one night, Lang called me. It was late, two, maybe three in the morning. I was awake but barely, caught in that fog between dreaming and reality, and at first I almost ignored it. When I saw that the phone call was from Lang, a jolt of adrenaline shot through me, like my body already knew before my mind caught up. I answered on the fourth ring. Lang? They were silence, not even breathing, just dead air.

I sat up running a hand through my hair. Lange, what the hell? It's the middle of the night. More silence. Then, finally, I heard her inhale sharply like she had been holding her breath. I need to see you, she said. Her voice was low, almost the whisper. I frowned.

Now? Yes, now. Something in my gut twisted. Why? What's going on? I can't talk about it over the phone, she said. I exhaled through my nose, already annoyed. You realize how suspicious that sounds right?

Christ, Lang, if this is about Hyperion, it's over. We lost. We got shut down. We did everything we could. She didn't respond right away. and for a moment I thought she had hung up. Then she said, voice quiet and unsteady. I don't think it's over.

That made me go still. She exhaled shakily, and for the first time I realized how afraid she sounded. I've been running tests, she admitted, so softly I almost didn't hear her. My grip on the phone tightened. You've what? There was a pause.

Not officially. Off the record. Just following up. Geez, Lang, I snapped. You're telling me you kept working on this? After everything? After? I had to.

She cut me off. Her voice rising slightly, desperate. You don't understand. Something is still happening. I let out a humorless laugh. Yeah, clearly. You ran trials on something that cooked people's brains. What did you expect that it would just stop? She didn't react to my anger. Lang never backed down from a fight. She was always the first to argue, the first to push back. But now, she just let the silence stretch. And when she finally spoke again, it was a whisper. I don't think we discovered Hyperion, she said. I think it discovered us. I swallowed hard.

What the hell does that mean? A longer pause this time. Then finally, just come over. Almost didn't go. I sat in my car for a long time, turning the key, staring at my hands, gripping the wheel, debating whether or not I should just throw my phone into the river and drive in the opposite direction.

But I went. Lange lived in a small apartment downtown, a small and out-of-the-way place, not fit for someone making as much money as she did. I'd been there a few times before, back when we were still at Eisenloid, back when we still talked about our work. I knocked once and the door unlocked almost immediately. looked like she hadn't slept in days. Her hair was unkempt, dark circles bruised beneath her eyes,

and her hands trembled as she stepped back, motioning for me to come inside. I hesitated. Lang, just look, she said, already moving toward a desk. She flipped open a laptop and pulled up a series of images. At first, they didn't make sense. just a mess of lines, paragraphs and data points but then she pointed at one specific chart tapping the screen with a fingernail

this is a brain scan from one of our last test subjects taken three days ago my stomach lurched you're still tracking them not officially she said but I've been monitoring the scans I stared at the screen the patterns in the chart were wrong

They weren't random bursts of electrical activity. They were deliberate, repeating. Okay, I said slowly. What am I looking at? Lange clicked to another slide, pulling up a star map. My blood ran cold. The patterns in the scan. They matched.

Not randomly, not approximately. Exactly. I looked at her throat dry. What the hell is this? Lang didn't answer. She clicked again, pulling up another image. I took a slow step back. That's impossible.

Lang was pale. I thought so too. I ran a hand through my hair, my pulse hammering in my ears. So, what are you saying? that Hyperion is what some kind of I don't know she admitted her voice barely above a whisper we stared at the screen the glow of the data reflecting off the walls casting the room in cold light I could hear my own heartbeat too loud in my ears I could feel my skin crawling as I looked at the images again trying to make sense of something that wasn't meant to be understood Lang sat in front of a laptop, staring at the screen, fingers resting on the keyboard, but not typing. The blue glow washed over a face, hollowing out her already exhausted features, making a look almost skeletal.

I was standing in the doorway, trying to process what I had just seen. None of it made sense, but the look in her eyes told me, She wasn't done yet. I exhaled through my nose, rubbing a hand over my face, trying to steady myself. That's not why you called me here, I finally said, is it? She didn't answer at first. Her fingers twitched like she was considering what to say. I saw her swallow hard, shoulders tensing before she spoke.

No, she admitted. That's not why I called you. I waited for her to continue, but she didn't. She just sat there, staring at the screen, like she was afraid to say it out loud. Lang, I took a step forward, my pulse starting to climb. Tell me what's going on. She reached for a mouse, scrolling through something I couldn't see yet. I think it got out, she said.

said, voice barely above a whisper. The words hit me like a cold slap to the face. My hands clenched at my sides. What? She nailed sharply, exhaling slowly, forcing herself to stay calm. I found the file circulating online, she said. At first, I thought it was a hoax, someone trying to recreate it, theorize about it. But then I checked.

She motioned toward her screen, lips pressing into a thin line. It's real. The actual sequence. Someone leaked it. I felt my breath catch. How long ago? She hesitated. Twelve hours, maybe less.

The floor felt unsteady beneath me. Lang's jaw clenched. She opened another file, clicking through. a series of news reports, but she wasn't looking at the screen. She was looking at me, watching my reaction. I stepped closer. The first article was from this morning. Police investigating reports of multiple self-inflicted deaths in an apartment complex, three individuals found deceased in their rooms, no sign of struggle, no known connection between them. I swear to go down. Authorities in Tokyo responding to a surge of unexplained suicides, locals report

seeing people walking into the streets into oncoming traffic seemingly unaware of their surroundings. Another one. Coastal towns reporting an increase in drownings. Witnesses describe victims walking into the water, ignoring bystanders, disappearing beneath the waves without resistance. I felt my stomach drop. My voice came out tight, like my throat was closing up. This can't be real. Lang clicked on a live stream. It was some security camera feed, grainy and low quality. A man stood on top of a parking garage, motionless in front of a laptop screen. He wasn't blinking. His hands were relaxed at his sides, his face completely neutral. Then, without hesitation, he turned and walked straight off the edge.

He didn't scream, didn't react, didn't flinch. The feed cut to black. Lange exhaled, leaning forward, hands covering her face. It's happening. I was shaking. It hasn't even been a day. I know, she whispered. It happened faster than anyone could have imagined.

The leak spread through some coding forums, obscure research boards, private archives. Someone had cracked the format, posted the raw sequence, and people, curious, stupid people, had opened it without thinking. They saw Hyperion and never looked away. We watched it unfold in real time. Video clips surfaced, people standing still in front of screens, eyes wide, bodies are moving for minutes, hours before finally turning and walking away. Some were found later, dead in their homes, sitting peacefully in front of their monitors, bodies untouched, unmarked. Others vanished entirely. No notes, no last words.

The worst part was how quiet it was. No panic, no violent outbursts, no struggle, just a stillness. And then they left. They walked into the ocean, into forests, into caves and abandoned places, anywhere that swallowed them whole. They went down subway tunnels and never emerged. They walked into traffic without so much as a scream. Lang and I tried everything to stop it. We contacted people in government, tried to get service shut down,

tried to warn anyone who would listen. By the time the world even realized what was happening. It was already too late. It was inevitable and it wasn't slowing down. Lang gave it her all. She still believed there was a way to contain it to stop it from consuming everything. She spent every waking moment chasing solutions, theories,

some scientific explanation that could fix what we had done. But even she knew the truth. One day I called her. She didn't pick up. When I got to her apartment, the door was unlocked, laptops still running, data still open. She had walked out somewhere in the middle of the night. No sign of a struggle, no note, no goodbyes.

Just... Gone. There's nowhere left to run. The world is going quiet. More people disappear every day. No one knows how many are left. No one is counting anymore. I've been sitting in my apartment for hours, staring at the gun on my table.

I don't want to go the way they did. I don't want to walk into something. I don't want to see it again. I keep hearing Lang's voice. I hear the echoes of every subject we tested, every person who vanished. It's everything. It's always been everything. I'm sorry.

I should have stopped this before it started. The ocean doesn't care about you. It's not your enemy, and it sure as hell isn't your friend. It's just there, silent and endless. stretching past the horizon. People think they understand it because they can chart a course, read a tide, plot a point on a map. They don't.

The ocean keeps its own secrets. And sometimes... It lets you see one. We had planned a trip across the Atlantic. I captained the MV Red Sabre for almost 15 years now, moving small cargo from one port to another, keeping to time. tight schedules and predictable routes.

I initially started in the Navy, but that life was a long way behind me. My crew is small, just four of us. Fewer men means fewer costs, but it also means fewer people to rely on when things go wrong. We were three days out from Spain. It was the middle of the night, somewhere past 0200 hours, and I was still awake in my cabin, staring at the same navigational charts. The radio crackled once, then again. A voice was trying to push through the static.

It came through the comms. A weak, staticy voice repeating the same sequence over and over again. Mayday, Mayday, this is the perdition, position, latitude 35, longitude... It cut out to... again. I sat up. The perdition? That name wasn't familiar, but the way the signal came in, faint and interrupted, meant whatever equipment they were using, it was dated. I keep the intercom. Rich, this is the captain. You picking that off? There was a pause. Then Gallagher answered, I-Cap

We thought it was interference at first But it's repeating Same distress code every 30 seconds Source We're running it through the registry now Another pause I could hear his fingers moving over the keyboard The sound of rapid typing

Then a brief pause Uh Captain You might want to see this By the time I got to the bridge Gallagher was still staring at the screen, one hand resting against his chin. His brow was furrowed. You're going to want to see this, he muttered.

I glanced at the monitor. The distress code was still cycling, a single repeating sequence of numbers and static, as if someone had been broadcasting it on a loop. Behind us, a chair creaked. I turned to see Holloway, the youngest of the crew. Lingering near the back of the bridge, arms crossed over his chest. He looked tense. I wasn't sure if he even realized he was doing it,

but his foot tapped against the floor in a steady rhythm, a nervous energy he hadn't learned to mask yet. Rodriguez lingered near the back, standing stiff, watching us all. What am I looking at? I asked. Gallagher turned the monitor slightly so I could get it. a better look. The registry was pulled up. The distress code logged and matched. The perdition was listed, but the date next to it stopped me for a moment. 1921. I frowned, glancing back at the others. You're telling me, we just picked up a hundred-year-old

distress call? Gallagher didn't answer right away. He exhaled through his nose, tapping his knuckle against the desk. Signals coming through clean, no drift, no degradation. This isn't an old transmission bouncing back. This is live. That has to be wrong, I said. It's a malfunction, a glitch.

Behind me, Rodriguez muttered something in Spanish. This is bad luck, he said. We shouldn't meddle with these things. Rodriguez had been on the water longer than the rest of us combined. He wasn't overly superstitious, but he had his traditions and ways. I'd learn to respect and honour some of them. Gallagher cleared his throat.

I guess it could probably be a mistake, Captain. Some tech anomaly, maybe a freak frequency bounce. The ocean can be weird like that. I nodded slowly. He was right. I've seen things like this before. stray signals, old transmissions getting caught in atmospheric loops, even ancient broadcasts being replayed by accident.

But this was no tech anomaly, as Gallica had said. The signal was coming through clean as a whistle. I looked back of the screen. The coordinates placed the signal 200 miles ahead of us. Nothing there but open water. No islands, no reefs, no known wreck sites to mention. Could be pirates, Holloway said suddenly. His voice was casual, but I caught the way he swallowed hard afterward.

Bating us in? That was a possibility. It wouldn't be the first time someone had rigged a fake emergency to lure in a rescue crew. But pirates don't use distress codes from a century ago. I exhaled slowly, then turned back to Rodriguez. You think this is bad luck? He nodded once. A ship disappears and a hundred years later it starts calling for help?

That's not right, Captain. Tell me something about that doesn't sound wrong to you. I turned back to the rest of the crew. Listen, we're professionals. That's a distress call and we're obligated to check it out. We went over this and training people. There's nobody else around us for this. Radio into nearby ships from here and we take it from there.

Could be a hoax, could be a malfunction, could be something else entirely, but we won't know unless we look. Gallagher hesitated. Captain, I... That's final. I turned back toward the helm, set a course for the coordinates. No one spoke. The tension in the air shifted.

Finally, Gallagher muttered something under his breath and nodded. Aye, sir. Rodriguez didn't argue. He just shook his head and walked away. The fog rolled in a few minutes after we started heading for the location, and it was getting steadily worse. The further we pushed toward the coordinates, the denser it became, until the ocean and sky blurred into the same endless void.

The radar picked up the ship before we could see it. The radar was reading a massive ship floating just ahead. The readings were. weren't erratic, weren't distorted. Whatever was out there was solid. So, we weren't heading for a shipwreck. Gallagher adjusted the radio frequency, turning dials with the patience of a man

who had done it a thousand times before. His jaw was tight, his fingers tapping anxiously against the console. Still nothing, he muttered. No response. He tried again. This is the NV Red Sabre responding to an emergency distress call. Petition, do you read, over. The radio remained silent, just static, a low hums stretching out like a dead signal.

I exhaled slowly, rubbing my temple. Keep trying. Holloway stood near the bridge window, staring out into the mist like he was trying to will something into focus. He shifted uneasily. If they needed help, shouldn't they be responding? Gallagher shook his head. Even if they're dead in the water, someone should be hearing us. If the beacon is live, the comm should be live too.

Maybe their radio's busted, I said through my teeth. Maybe they lost power. Rodriguez scoffed under his breath. Maybe. Then the fog thinned. and we saw it. The perdition emerged from the mist like a ghost. It loomed before us, intact and untouched.

A merchant vessel from another century. Dark wood slick with moisture. It sails furled tight. Its masts rising into the grey sky like skeletal remains. There were no signs of damage, no wreckage, nothing to suggest why a ship like this, had sent out an SOS in the first place. Holloway took a step closer to the window.

Geez. Gallagher tapped a few keys on the radar console, shaking his head. God, that is one massive ship. Rodriguez remained silent. I straightened, inhaling sharply. We're boarding. We lowered the dinghy and approached slow. The ladder was still in.

intact, rope and wood swaying gently against the perdition's hull. I grabbed hold, testing its weight. The damp fibres creaked under my grip, but held firm. I looked back. Holloway and Gallagher sat stiff in the dinghy. Rodriguez didn't move, didn't reach for the ladder. His hands were planted on his knees, fingers tight. You coming?

I asked. A pause, his jaw clenched, then reluctantly he took hold of the rungs. Holloway and Gallagher followed. The ship was still, the lantern swayed gently from their hooks, but they were unlit. The ropes were neatly coiled, undisturbed. A layer of dampness clung to everything, but there was no decay. "'Pedition!' I shouted, "'my voice cutting through the mist.

"'Anyone aboard?' "'No response.' Gallagher called out next, louder. "'This voice echoed, bouncing off the sails "'before fading into nothing. "'Silence.' "'Madriguez muttered something, glancing around. "'I turned back to the others.

"'We'll cover more ground if we split up. "'Galliger, take the upper day. Halloway with me, Rodriguez, check below deck. We regroup in ten minutes. If we don't find anybody, we leave and report back to land with what we find. Gallagher excelled sharply. Splitting up. I'm sure that's a good idea, Cap.

You know in movies, they say, we're wasting time, they said sternly. Rodriguez simply turned, disappearing into the shadows below deck without another word. Holloway and I moved carefully through the dimly lit corridor, the damp wood beneath us groaning under our weight. The air here was heavier than it had been outside, thick with a scent of salt and aged timber. The lanterns lining the walls were unlit, their glass panes smeared with condensation. Every door we passed was shut tight, their brass handles tarnished. At the end of the passage, one door was. stood slightly ajar.

I pushed it open, stepping inside. The captain's quarters was small but oddly. A single cot against the wall, neatly made, the sheets still tucked in tight. A chest at the foot of the bed latched but not locked. The desk took up most of the space, its surface covered in loose papers, maps curled at the edges, ink bottles tipped over and dried. A leather-bound logbook sat in the centre, lying open to a page warped with moisture. Beside it, a lantern, unlit but still filled with oil. Holloway hesitated in the doorway, nostrils flaring slightly.

You smell that? I did. Not rot, not mildew, just damp and sour. The scent clung to everything, thick and. and stale. The way a house smells when it's been shut up for months or a ship has been sailing for decades. I ran my fingers over the desk.

The wood was swollen, the grain rough beneath my touch. The papers beneath the logbook was stuck together in places. The ink smudged, but the words beneath my fingers was still legible. I flipped to the logbook carefully.

Holloway steps inside now, staying close to the door, his gaze shifting between scattered papers and the rest of the room. What does it say? I squinted at the text, reading aloud. May 3rd, 1921, northeasterly wind, steady at ten knots, course adjusted westward, men in good spirits. I skimmed further down. The next few entries were standard, nothing out of the ordinary, weather conditions, course adjustments, a brief note about rationing. Then, something changed. May 10th, a voice below deck last night.

Boeson claims he heard it too, but there was no one there. Crew uneasy. I frowned, flipping further. May 13th, the men are restless. I do not believe it was the wind. Mr. Avery remembered. refuses to sleep below. The others are beginning to whisper. Holloway shifted on his feet. You think they had a stairway? Maybe. I kept reading. The last entry was written in a hasty scroll

as if the writer had barely finished before slamming the book shut. May 18th, The sea is speaking. The men are listening. I am the only one left. I stared at it for a long moment. The ink smudged and bleeding into the page. The words rushed, uneven. The last page wasn't finished. Holloway leaned over my shoulder, exhaling sharply.

Man. I closed the logbook. running a thumb along the frayed edges of the pages. There's no mention of distress before this, no damage, no sickness, no storm. I gestured at the room, and this place looks like someone just left. Holloway glanced around, rubbing his arms.

I don't like this cap. This isn't how a ship looks after a hundred years. I knelt beside the chest at the foot of the bed, running a hand over the latch. It wasn't locked. I lifted the lid. Inside, neatly folded clothes sat stacked on one side, a pair of boots placed carefully beside them. A shaving kit, a pocket watch, small ordinary things, but clearly untouched for a very long time.

Holloway exhaled through his nose. No personal letters, no sign of where they went? No. I set the watch back, my fingers brushing the fabric of the clothes beneath it. The material was damp, but still intact, not eaten away by time or salt. I stood, glancing at Holloway. Where the hell is the crew? And who and how did they make a distress cut?

Before he could add, a noise echoed from somewhere outside the room. A deep, dull thud. Holloway turned sharply toward the doorway. I tensed, straining to hear past the thick stillness. Then another sound. Shuffling. Distant, slow. Gallagher's voice carried through the corridor.

Rodriguez? I felt something cold settling my gut. We stepped out the room. The ship was silent again. Nothing but the distant lapping of water against the hole. Gallagher stood near the helm, looking around, frowning. Have you seen Rodriguez? He asked.

I glanced toward the stairs leading below deck. He should have been back by now. The ten minutes were up. He was checking below, I said. Gallagher exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders. He hesitated and turned his gaze towards the stairwell. You think he found something? Gallagher led the way.

His flashlight sweeping the stairwell as we descended into the lower decks, our boots heavy. The same smell from the captain's quarters was present here, but stronger. It smelled so wrong. I gripped the railing, stepping down cautiously. Rodriguez? My voice came out tight. You down here? Silence. Holloway moved close behind me, barely a step away, breathing hard through his nose.

He kept glancing over his shoulder like he was expecting something to be there when he turned back. Gallagher kept his jaw locked tight, pressing forward, his flashlight bouncing off old crates and rusted tools. Another few steps, another breath of damp air, thick with salt. then. We heard it. A crash. Wood splintering. A low, wet gurgling.

We turned fast, Gallagher's light flicking wildly, catching nothing but empty space. But the sound was still there. A struggle. Moved first, pushing past the others,

heart hammering against my ribs. Rodriguez! No answer. A thud, something heavy hitting the floor. We stood frozen, Holloway clenched his jaw so tight I thought it might snap. Then, finally, I stepped forward. The corridor stretched ahead, damp wood groaning beneath us. I forced myself to move faster, flashlight gripped tight.

I pulled so loud in my ears, I almost. almost didn't hear the drip. But it was there. Soft, rhythmic. Drip. Drip. Drip. Gallagher saw it first.

His breath hitched. His steps faltered. His flashlight beam caught something on the floor ahead. Something red. A trail. A body. Rodriguez. I stopped breathing.

The flashlight shook slightly my grip, illuminating torn fabric, shredded flesh, broken bones. His chest had been ripped open. Chunks of him were missing. When I was gone, the socket black and gaved in. His jaw was slack, the muscles of his neck mangled as if something had chewed through them. Holloway made a noise, choked, disbelieving. Gallagher swallowed thickly behind me. He didn't move.

None of us did. Madriguez hadn't just been attacked. He had been eaten. I had seen a lot of things at sea, drowning, suicides accidents. This wasn't any of those. I opened my mouth, then closed it again. Holloway took a step back from the corpse, shaking his head. His breathing was erratic, chest rising and falling too fast, like he was trying not to hyperventilate.

No, no, we need to go, we need to go right now. What the hell did this to him? Gallagher hadn't moved, just kept staring at the mess that used to be Rodriguez. His face was unreadable, but I could see his fingers twitching at his sides, like his body was deciding whether to run or shut down completely. I exhaled, forcing my mind to stay in control. We can't just leave him here. Holloway snapped his head up to look at me. His eyes were wild.

Are you... Are you serious? His voice cracked, like he couldn't believe what he was hearing. Look at him. There's no bringing him back. He's dead. He's... He gestured with both hands, stumbling over his words.

He's gone, captain. And if we don't... get the hell off the ship. We'll be next. I clenched my jaw, kept my voice even. I know that. Do you? He let out a sharp, humorless laugh.

Because I don't think you do. I think you're trying to make sense of this, trying to be the goddamn captain when we should already be getting the hell out of it. We will not leave him here. Holloway went silent. I forced myself to keep going, even though my stomach felt like it was strange. trying to turn itself inside out.

We should, at least bring him back to his wife and family, hold a proper funeral. Gallagher excelled sharply, running a hand down his face. His shoulders were still stiff, his posture tense. I swallowed, glancing down at what was left of Rodriguez. I didn't even know what we'd tell anyone back on land. And there was something about the way he had been left there. torn open and abandoned, that didn't sit right with me.

I forced myself to look back at them. We don't just leave him here like some animal carcass. We take him back. Holloway didn't say anything. Just looked at me, eyes dark and unreadable. Then, finally, Gallagher let out a slow breath and nodded. We didn't argue about it anymore. The smell of blood was worse now.

The motion of dragging him had stirred it, letting it seep into the wood, thick and warm and unmistakable. Holloway had his hands hooked under Rodriguez's arms, his face a combination of something between determination and revulsion. Gallagher and I took the legs, lifting as best we could. The ship groaned around us as we moved. Every step was slow.

Heavy. The weight of the dead is always different than the weight of the living, more final. We didn't talk, just moved, just kept her eyes ahead, but almost to the stairwell when Gallagher muttered. Wait. We stopped. His flashlight flickered, bouncing off something near the far end of the corridor. I followed his gaze, shifting my own beam to match. something was there.

At first, I thought it was a man. Hey, are you the person that sent out the distress signal? Who the hell did this to our friend? Who are you? I shouted. It didn't respond. Instead, it just stood in the shadows, half lost in the darkness. Then...

It stepped forward. Its body was swollen, bloated in places like it had been left under. water for too long. The skin was blue-gray, tinged with deep, sickly greens. The texture was hoarse, its flesh not smooth but broken up, cracked like dried leather. Clusters of varnicles hung to its shoulders, its arms, the side of his neck. It stared at me. And I stared back. Its mouth hung slightly open. The inside of its mouth was ragged and torn. The gums were black, the teeth rotting, but something moved inside, shifting beneath the teeth. Small, thin tendrils stained with moisture, flicked in and out between them, almost like feelers.

It took another step forward, and it spoke. Not words, not anything that should have been speech, just a wet, gurgling croak. Something pulled from the depths of rotting lungs. Rodriguez's body hit the floor with a dull, wet thump as we let go and ran. We didn't think, didn't speak, didn't breathe. The thing behind us lurched forward, its feet dragging across the damp wood, its movements both too slow and too fast. I could hear it.

The wet, labored wheeze rattling in his chest. the sickly pop of something shifting under its skin. Gallagher shoved past me, his flashlight beam bouncing wildly. Holloway was right behind him, his breath coming ragged, desperate. We made it to the stairs, our boots slamming against the steps, but the thing wasn't too far behind us. And then... Holloway slipped.

He hit the landing hard, his flashlight skidding across the floor. He scrambled up onto his hands and knees gasping, but the thing behind us was already there. A wet slap of flesh on wood, a gutturro croak. I turned, barely catching a glimpse of it lurching toward Holloway. Its mouth yawned open, unimaginably deep, a mess of shattered teeth and writhing, slick tendrils. It was so close. I didn't think I grabbed the first thing I could

A boxer tools to my left at a crowbar I grabbed it so tight my hand ached Then swung The crack of impact was sharp Jarring The thing's head jerked violently to the side And something deep inside it made a wet sucking sound like air escaping from a bloated carcass

It staggered Gallagher was already moving, hauling Holloway to his feet. I took another step forward and brought the crowbar down hard, aiming for its head, its chest, anything that would break. It didn't bleed. It leaked. Dark, brackish water spilled from the wound, sloshing onto the deck, carrying with it the reek of salt and decay. But it didn't stop. It grabbed at me, his fingers webbed and thick with barnacles,

its nails blackened and splitting. I wrenched away, my breath coming in short gasps. Gallagher moved next, slamming his boot into my chest, sending it staggering back. Holloway grabbed a rusted pipe from the floor and brought it down on its skull. This time, it collapsed. The final, shuddering breath rattled out from its lungs, but there was no struggle, no death throws, just the slow, unnatural way it deflated,

like the sea itself was pulling its insides back down into the depths. The ship went silent. The three of us stood there, panting, shaking, dripping sweat. I forced myself to breathe. My heart was still hammering, my body still locked in vital flights. but we weren't being chased anymore. Not yet. Gallagher wiped the sweat from his brow with a shaky hand.

Jeez, he muttered. What the hell was it? Holloway didn't answer. I swallowed hard and stepped forward. My leg shook as adrenaline surge through me. The creature's skin was the worst part. Pale, almost translucent in places, bloated with water, the veins underneath bulging, too dark, too thick.

It had been human once, that much was clear. But it wasn't anymore. The barnacles, the jagged nails, the empty sockets as I should have been, whatever had happened to this thing, it had changed. Then I really looked at it. It had clothes. Ragged, torn but still there. A heavy wool coat, tattered and salt-eaten, a loose undershirt ripped down the front, a pair of slacks that might have once been navy blue.

I knew these clothes. They weren't just old rags. They were a uniform. A sailor's uniform. Holloway must have noticed it at the same time I did because he let out a short, shaky breath. I turned slightly, saw his hands clenching at his sides. His face was pale, his lips pressed into a thin line. Cap? he said, voice low.

How many? I blinked. I... Holloway swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. He didn't take his eyes off the corpse. How many? He repeated, quieter this time. How many crewmen would a ship like this have? I stared at him.

Then I looked around us. Big ship, massive really. For a merchant vessel of this size, back in the 1920s, I clenched my chore. At least 30, I said. Holloway exiled slowly through his nose. He didn't look away from the thing on the floor. Let's get out quickly, calling for help and come back for a drink.

The sound rose from all over the lower decks, from the corridors, from the darkness behind the crates, a chorus of damp, shuddering exhales, all breathing in unison. Holloway heard it too, his face drained of colour. Gallagher took a slow step back, his light shaking in his grip. They heard us. They crawled out of the dark, dragging themselves across the damp wood, climbing from the flooded lower decks. Some staggered upright, their legs bent at wrong angles, others moved on all fours, their limbs elongated, their bloated their bloated fingers curling into the boards. One of them lurched into the light.

I could hear Holloway gagging. I took a step back. The creature's head snapped toward me, and then it stumbled and ran at the wall. the same time. Gallagher screamed. The whole ship erupted into motion. The creature swarmed forward, scrambling over each other, crawling, sprinting, dragging themselves toward us. Go! I shouted, shoving Holloway toward the stairs. We ran. Gallagher was ahead of me. Holloway was right behind him. I could hear the creatures closing in, the sick, wet thud of hands. and knees against the wood, the wheezing, the gurgling. Gallagher was the first to reach the stairs,

taking them two at a time. All the way stumbled, caught himself. I turned my head just once and saw them dozens. Their forms shifting in the dim light, some missing entire pieces of themselves, but still coming. One of them leapt forward, its jaw unhinging. Gallagher reached the railing, but a hand shot out from the darkness and grabbed his ankle. He hit the stairs hard, his flashlight clattering against the floor. I lunged forward trying to grab his arm, but... I was too slow. Something tore, Gallagher screamed.

And then... He was gone. Holloway kept running. I had no choice but to follow. I could still hear Gallagher screaming. Then it turned into gurgling. We burst onto the deck, gasping for air, lungs burning, muscles screaming. The floor was wet and Holloway and I both slipped and fell and some of the things gained on us.

Move, I shouted, but my voice barely carried over the thick, suffocating air. Then they hit us. The first one grabbed my arm, fingers slick and bloated, curling around my wrist. I whipped around, swung everything I had, my fist cracking against the thing's skull. It barely reacted. This jaw hung open, those blackened gums and jagged teeth barely visible in the dim light. The thing inside its mouth flicked, reaching. I drove my knee into its gut, yanking my arm free,

stumbling back. Holloway was next, a pair of them closing in on him, their movements slow like they planned to enjoy themselves. He grabbed a rusted pole from the deck and swung hard, knocking one of them back. The other lunged, grabbing his shoulder. I rushed forward, slamming into the thing, sending both of us sprawling to the deck. Holloway stumbled back, panting, wiping sweat from his face with a shaking hand. And then I felt it.

Fingers around my ankle. My stomach dropped. I kicked hard, but the grip was iron. It was dragging me back. I tried to reach for something, but my fingers only scraped against the deck, against the damp, rotting wood. And then Holloway was there.

He grabbed my arms yanking me up. The thing's grip tightened. it's rotting nails trying to dig into my skin. I barely had time to register the pain before Holloway ripped a plank off the floor and smashed it in the thing's face. A wet, sickening crunch. The grip loosened.

That was all we needed. We ran. Holloway skidded to a stop near the railing. He turned to me, chest heaving. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. We both knew. One option.

Jump. I gave him a single nod. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Just do it. We turned together and jumped. The air rushed past my ears. The cold spray of salt water hitting my skin as we plummeted toward the black abyss below.

I hit the water hard. The cold like a knife to the chest. My breath vanished, stolen by the sudden pressure, the darkness, the silence. For half a second, I was weightless, spinning. The current gripped me, dragged me downward. I kicked hard, fighting against it, lung screaming, heart hammering. My fingers reached for the surface, for air, for anything. Then I broke through, gasping, choking, choking.

I wiped the salt from my eyes, twisting, searching. Holloway. I saw his head bob up a few feet away, sputtering, spitting seawater. We're... His voice broke, hoarse, panicked. We're here, where... Where's the dinghy? I turned, looking frantically through the fog-drenched water.

We saw it. just a few feet from where we landed. We pulled ourselves in, slipping and shaking. I just grabbed the oars and started rowing. As my adrenaline faded, I could focus my eyes, hear things, see. To row, I had to face the ship, seeing it slip into the thick fog that surrounded us. And on the silhouette flat line of the railing, I saw shapes that broke the perfect linearity of it.

Lumps, vague shapes wondering to the perimeter of the ship, watching us leave, bound to the cursed vessel. I was more than ready to just leave the ship behind, be done with it. But I heard something. Not the sloshing of them swimming towards us, nor the chase of something in the water, a voice. Captain, come back, please. It was Rodriguez.

Not a mimicry, wet and gurgled beneath the monster's form. His voice was clear, like it was perfectly well, like he hadn't been torn apart in the lower deck. Don't leave us behind. Come back. This time it was Gallagher. I hesitated. My rowing slowed.

Holloway tapped my arm. and when I looked at his face, he just shook his head. It wasn't him. It wasn't them. I knew that. But part of me still wanted to go back, just to make sure. I thought back to the logbook, the final entry. The sea is speaking.

The men are listening. In a straight-up roll, one or two we could handle. a ship of 30 hardened sailors would be able to handle that level of incursion. But all it would take is one. One familiar voice, one person you care enough about to check on to make sure they're okay. And you can see how quickly things can turn sour. We eventually reached our vessel.

Holloway collapsed behind me, panting, coughing, shaking. Neither of us spoke. By the time we reached the ship, the perdition was gone. The fog had swallowed it all, like it had never been there at all. I grew up in a small, single-story house on the outskirts of town. Our house wasn't much, just a squat little box of peeling white paint with a porch that sag slightly in the middle. I always thought it looked like it was tired of holding itself up.

I didn't care though. To me, it was home. But what I remember most about that house wasn't the porch or the yard or the tiny bedroom I shared with my younger brother. It was the crawl space. It stretched under the entire house. A hollow, black cavity, barely two feet high, covered by warp wooden slats nailed haphazardly across the entrance.

My dad always told me to stay away from it, said it was full of spiders and mould, sharp bits of rusted metal waiting to slice my hands open if I reached in. My mom warned me too, though she was less dramatic about it, more exasperated than afraid. But I was a curious kid. I'd kneel by the slats, peering through the gaps, trying to see what was inside. Most of the time, it was just dirt or darkness.

Sometimes, if the angle was just right, I'd catch a glimpse of the wooden beams holding up the house, or maybe a flash of something skittering out of sight. I never got too close, never reached inside. until one summer afternoon. When I heard someone whispered my name, I was playing in the backyard alone, kicking a plastic soccer ball around. When I heard it, faint at first,

a dry voice slipping out from beneath the house like a draft. When the voice slipped out from beneath a porch, it was so soft, I almost didn't hear it over the sound of the ball bouncing, I stopped, turned toward the crawl space, nothing but darkness. Then again, slightly louder, come here for a second. Any adult would have ran inside, alerted the police or done anything. But I was seven, maybe eight, and I had that stupid, childlike fearlessness that makes kids think nothing bad can happen to them.

so instead of being scared I was just curious I dropped my soccer ball and walked toward the crawl space dropping to my knees to press my face to the gaps in the wooden slats a face stared back at me I just stared back

man didn't blink his eyes were wide locked onto mine sunken deep into his skull like he hadn't slept in a long time his skin was sallow and streaked with dirt, and his hair, what little of it I could see, was long and stringy, clinging to his face in limp, greasy strands. When he spoke again, his voice was almost kind. Didn't mean to scare you, buddy. I still didn't answer. I'm an old friend of your dad's,

he said, his lips curling. Really? I finally managed. He shifted slightly, just enough that I could see more of him. Boney shoulders, his skin, a mess of wounds. He looked filthy, like he'd been rolling in dirt, but his voice was calm, friendly, the way adults talk to kids when they want them to feel safe. Yeah, used to be real close to the family. But it's been a while since we talked.

He probably wouldn't remember me. He nodded. That made sense. Adults forgot things all the time. Hey, do me a favour. He added, lowering his voice, don't tell him I'm here yet. Let's give it a secret for now.

Just between us. Your dad might not understand. At that age, I thought secrets were fun. I don't know why I trusted him. him. Maybe it was the way he spoke, the softness in his voice. Maybe it was because I wanted it to be true, because the idea of finally having a secret of my own to keep from my parents made it seem grand, special. I didn't tell my parents, and I kept visiting the crawl space. We just talked. I'd go outside and kneel by the crawl space, whispering through the gaps in the

wooden slats while the man lay on the dirt on the other side. He never came out, never reached for me, just stayed in the shadows, speaking in that same soft, friendly tone that made me feel like I was talking to someone I've known all my life. I felt safe. What's your favorite thing to do? He asked me once. You play outside a lot. What do you want to be when you grow up? His questions were harmless at first, and he listened so intently, like every little thing I said was the most important thing he'd ever heard. I liked that. But over time, the questions started to change. Your dad still works late, huh?

Where do you sleep in the house? Your mom locked the doors at night. The first time he asked that, I hesitated. Yeah. I said. She locks them. Every night. I thought about it.

Sometimes she forgets, I admitted. He was quiet for a long time. Really? He finally asked. She sometimes forgets. There was something in his voice, something I didn't understand yet. Because I was just a kid. Looking back, I can see now that there were never just questions.

They were tests, each one peeling back another layer, gauging how much I knew, how much I was willing to tell him, how much influence he had over me, without me even realizing it. And I'd let him do it. I had fed him information piece by piece, unaware that I was giving him everything he needed. Hey, buddy, I missed you yesterday. Sorry, I had whispered back. I went to my grandmas. Ah, that's nice. Bet she makes good cookies.

Yeah. Your little brother go to. The question was casual, effortless, like he was just making small talk. I'd answered without thinking. I didn't think back then of the fact that I'd never mentioned my little brother to him. Uh-huh, he always comes with us. Of course, can't leave the little guy behind, huh? I laughed.

And then, I heard the screen door creak open. Hey, what are you doing? I flinched, jerking back from the crawl space so fast that I scrape my knee against the dirt. My little brother was standing on the porch, watching me with wide, suspicious eyes, his small hands gripping the wooden railing like he had caught me doing something I wasn't supposed to. I panicked. Nothing, I said quickly, scrambling to my feet. I was just looking for something.

His face twisted into something skeptical, his little brows knitting together as he took a step forward, craning his neck to look at the crawl space entrance. Looking for what? The man was silent. I could feel him waiting just beyond the slats, watching, listening. I had to think fast. Uh, my ball, I said, brushing dirt off my shorts and trying to sound as normal as possible. I think it rolled under there.

My brother's gaze flicked back to me. Okay. Um, want to go play in the treehouse? I stumbled. And just like that. He forgot all about it. I wish he never believed me. The first time the man in the crawl space asked me for something,

I almost didn't even register it as a request. Hey buddy, can you do me a favor? It was an easy question. We were just two old friends at this point, trading secrets. I didn't even hesitate before nodding, before giving him this simple, automatic. Sure. Because, why wouldn't I? He had never asked for anything before.

He'd never even implied that he wanted something from me beyond my company. Your dad keeps a spare key to the shed, right? I remember feeling the slightest pang of discomfort then. But it was vague, unformed, like the first tremor of a storm coming, a flicker of something wrong just beneath the surface, that my young mind didn't yet know how to identify. I hesitated, but the response came anyway. Yeah?

You know where he hides it? Of course I did. It was under the porch, tucked behind a row of old cinder blocks near the back steps. My dad had told me once, in case he ever needed me to get it for him, and I'd filed the information away, never thinking it would be useful for anything.

else. Yeah, I said. Think you could grab it for me. That's when I finally hesitated for real. There was a shift, a barely perceptible change in the air between us, a tiny crack in the illusion that I had never noticed before. I didn't understand why it felt wrong, but it did. And for the first time since I'd started talking to him. I found myself wanting to leave. Why? He laughed, as if the answer was obvious. Ah, it's stupid, he said, dismissing the whole thing as a joke, as if I was the silly one

for taking it seriously. I left something in there a long time ago, something I meant to grab. A little keepsake, you know. That made sense to me All the adults had little things they didn't need But couldn't bring themselves the throwaway Even mom had shoeboxes full of old birthday cards She never looked at

And my dad had a drawer full of broken watches He always swore he was going to fix And maybe you noticed Maybe he sensed that my willingness was starting to crack Because after a moment of silence He gave me reassurance. It's all right, buddy, he said, you don't have to do it. And that was the end of it until the next time.

But he didn't ask about the shed key. Hey. His voice was lower that day, quieter, like he didn't want anyone else to hear. Even though we were alone in the backyard. just as we always were. What? Could you leave the bag door unlocked for me tonight? My stomach twists thinking back to it.

Why? I want to leave you a little present. Trust me, I really liked presents and my parents hadn't gotten me a present since my birthday a couple of months back. And then, before I could decide what to do, "'Dinner's ready!' I turned toward the house, the sound snapping me out of whatever fog I'd been slipping into.

And when I looked back, he was gone. I unlocked the back door that night. I don't know if it was because I started trusting the man too much, or if I wanted a present that badly, or maybe I was just too caught up in the normal rhythm of family life to think about anything beyond the present moment. Either way, it didn't matter, because the moment came and went,

and by the time we sat down for dinner, the whole thing was already slipping from my mind, already losing its weight. And then, without thinking, I said it. I talked to your friend today. I didn't even notice the reaction. I was focused on my plate, barely paying attention, my fork spearing a piece of overcooked

chicken as I chewed slowly, distantly. But then the silence settled, and I felt it. Dad's hand, frozen mid-cut, his knuckles white around the handle of his knife. Mom, unmoving at the stove, her back to me, her posture stiff. She looked like her entire body had gone cold all at once. What friend? Dad's voice was slow, careful, like he already knew the answer but was trying to delay it. I blinked at him, confused by the sudden change in the atmosphere.

Your friend, in the coral space, the words landed. Mom dropped the pan she had been holding, the metal cloud. shattering against the stove with a loud, jarring crash. Dad's face went white. For a long time, no one moved all at once. Dad pushed back from the table, standing so fast his chair scraped against the floor with a shriek of wood on tile. Without a word, he turned, walked to the front door and stormed outside.

My father was already in motion before I could fully register what was happening. His movement sharp and frantic as he ripped at the wooden slats covering the crawl space entrance. His fingers prying at the brittle planks with a kind of strength I'd never seen before. The nail shrieked as they were wrenched loose, the old wood splintering beneath the force of his grip. Dad? My voice came out small, but he didn't answer. He was breathing too hard, too fast, his hands shaking as he pulled. pulled away the last of the boards and tossed them aside.

The entrance to the crawl space yawned open before us, a gaping black mouth cut into the earth. Dad grabbed the flashlight from his belt, flicked it on and shined the beam inside. For a moment, I expected to see him. I expected the pale, thin man from beneath our house to be crouched in the dirt. sunken eyes reflecting the beam of light as he stared. But there was nothing, just emptiness. The flashlight beams swept across the crawl space, illuminating nothing but bare dirt and cobwebbed wooden beams.

The air that wafted out smelled stale and sour, thick with a scent of damp rot and things that had been left the decay in the dark for too long. No footprints in the dirt, no sign that anyone had ever been inside. No mattress, no discarded clothes, no remnants of a person who might have been living there. Maybe I'd made up the entire thing in my head, a game of pretend that it spiraled out of control. But then the flashlight beam passed over something small and familiar, something that shouldn't have been there. A shoe. Tiny, red, half covered in dirt. I felt a jolt of recognition before my mind fully processed what I was looking at. My stomach twisted violently and the air

seemed to thin around me, the world tilting sideways as I stared at it, because I knew that shoe didn't belong to me. It belonged to my little brother. What the hell? My dad's voice was hoarse, cracking at the edges as he stepped closer. His flashlight

trained on the single, outer-place objects sitting in the dirt. His hands clenched at his sides, his whole body rigid with tension. He turned toward me, his face pale. Where is your brother?

The words barely had time to register before my mother's voice rang out from behind us. Who are you talking about? I turned and saw her standing in the doorway, looking at us with an expression of deep, unsettled confusion. Her brows furrowed as she tugging the scene before her. Who was in the crawl space? She asked again. And then the screaming started. I don't remember running inside.

I don't remember how I got from the front yard to the hallway, how my legs carried me forward so fast that my surroundings blurred, the walls stretching long and thin, like something from a fever dream. I don't remember how I ended up right behind my father or how my mother's voice, shouting something I couldn't understand, faded into a dull hum at the edges of my mind. I only remember

the screaming it was raw and high and jagged something too broken to come from a person something that didn't sound human at all and it was coming from my brother's room

my father hit the door at full speed his shoulder slamming into it so hard that it must have hurt the wood buckled under his weight and for a moment moment it didn't budge, but then it gave way. He stumbled forward, nearly falling as he caught himself. And then I saw the blood. It was everywhere, splattered across the floor, painted up the walls

in thick, visceral streets. So much of it, more than I thought a person could even have inside them. It was still wet, still warm, still spreading and slow, creeping rivers beneath the flickering light of the ceiling fan. And in the center of it all, my brother, or what was left of him, I don't think I screamed, I don't think I made any noise at all. because something inside me broke, something deep and dark and all-consuming. And as I stood there, staring at the thing on the floor that had once been my little brother, the thought rose up in me, slow and suffocating, curling around my throat like smoke. I did this.

I don't know when my mother pushed past me, or when a voice cracked into a sound I'd never I heard before, something so shattered and animalistic that it didn't even sound like words. I don't know if they tried to shield me from the sight, if they pulled me back or turned me away. I don't know if I collapsed or ran or simply stood there as the room spun and folded inward around me. Because in that moment, all I could hear was his voice, where do you sleep in the house? Your mom locked the doors at night. She forget sometimes.

Really? The realization came slowly. It wasn't like a sudden impact, not an explosion of clarity. It was something worse, something creeping, something insidious, something that had been building for weeks, for months, for however long it had been listening to me. I had told him everything. I had given him the key to my family.

I don't know what happened after that. I don't know who called the police or how long it took them to arrive or how many times I was asked the same questions over and over and over again until my mouth was dry and my voice cracked from the effort of trying to answer. I don't know if I ever answered at all

because how do you begin to explain something like that? I don't remember the funeral. I don't remember the weeks that followed or the way my parents stopped talking to each other or the way my mother wouldn't even look at me anymore. I don't remember how I got from that house to a different one or how much time had passed before my father finally packed up all our things

and moved us away. But I remember the guilt. I've always believed in small gestures, the little things that remind someone you love them, even in the middle of a hectic, stressful life. My husband, Daniel, worked long hours at a law firm, and I knew how exhausting it could be for him. He'd come home late most nights, rolling his shoulders, loosening his tie, pressing a quick, tired kiss to my forehead, before collapsing onto the couch.

It wasn't that he wasn't affectionate, he really was, but his job pulled all the energy out of him and I hated seeing the exhaustion in his eyes. So, for Valentine's Day, I decided to do something small. Nothing extravagant, nothing over the top, just a handwritten letter. Something that would make him smile in the middle of his long day

maybe remind him that no matter how difficult work got, he had something good waiting for him at home. I spent longer than I'd like to admit writing it, curling up on the couch with a warm blanket and a glass of wine, tapping my pen against my chin as I thought of the right words. I wrote about the first time we met, the awkward fumbling early days of our relationship, the late-night talks that stretched into early mornings, I wrote about how grateful I was for him, how much I loved the life we had built together.

I even threw in a few of our inside jokes, the stupid jokes that made no sense to anyone else but had us gasping for breath from laughing too hard. When I was satisfied, I folded the letter neatly, placed it in a pink envelope and sealed it with a kiss. The next morning, I made sure to stop by his office on my way. way to work. His law firm was an older building, one of those places with too much marble and not enough personality, but the receptionist at the front desk was friendly enough. She told me to place the envelope in the mailbox just outside the building. She smiled, nodded, and I told her to have a great day. That evening, Daniel came home as usual,

tired but smiling just like always he dropped his bag by the door loosened his tie kissed me hello we had dinner together talking about our day well mostly his day he didn't mention the letter but i didn't bring it up either maybe he hadn't gotten around to reading it yet maybe you wanted to save it for later i figured i'd hear about it soon enough. But the next morning, before I even had time to get out of bed, I heard the sound of the mail slot opening. The usual stack of letters slid onto the floor, the soft thump barely registering in my half-asleep mind. For a second, I smiled.

Daniel must have written back. It wasn't like him. He'd always been more of a talker than a writer. but maybe my little Valentine surprise had inspired him. I sat up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, and made my way over to the mailbox. I tore the envelope open and pulled out the letter. It was written on the same stationary I had used, the same smooth, off-white paper, the same faintly embossed edges, at first.

It was sweet. I got your letter. Thank you, my love. It means more to me than you know. You always know how to make me smile. Always. For a moment, I felt a rush of warmth. But then, I read the next line. I need you to listen carefully. This is important. I don't know who has been coming home to you every night. I froze. I felt the ghost of a shudder ripple through me, forcing myself to keep breathing. my hand suddenly clammy against the paper. I haven't left the office in months.

I don't know what's happened. I don't know how, but something is pretending to be me. I let the paper slip from my fingers. I sat there staring at the letter in my hands, my breath coming slow and uneven. The words blurred in front of me, my mind scrambling for any rational explanation. It had to be a joke, a cruel, elaborate prank.

Someone at Daniel's office must have found my letter, copied his handwriting and sent this back to mess with me. Maybe even Daniel himself. Though I didn't understand why he'd do something so strange. And yet, my skin prickled with unease. I forced a laugh under my breath, shaking my head. It was absurd, completely. ridiculous. Still, when I heard him stir in the bedroom, when I heard the faint sound of sheets rustling and the floor creaking onto his weight, something in me hesitated just for a

moment. I folded the letter, slipped it back into the envelope and shoved it into my purse before heading to the kitchen to make coffee, trying to shake off the unease. I walked into the kitchen and reached for the matches. We had one of those old gas stoves, the kind where you had to turn the knob and light the burn of yourself. It had been finicky for years, sometimes requiring two or three tries before the flame would catch. By the time Daniel walked into the kitchen, rolling his shoulders and rubbing a hand through

his hair, I'd convinced myself that I was being ridiculous. Morning, he murmured, pressing a quick kiss to my temple. I twisted the knob and the familiar hiss of gas filled the air. The smell was sharp, pungent, but I struck the match anyway, letting the tiny flame flicker to life between my fingers. Then, with a quick motion, I brought it to the burner. The fire flared up instantly. A small wash of heat, a soft burst of orange and blue, as the gas finally caught. The kitchen was filled.

with the quiet crackle of the flame settling, the warmth spreading outward, and that's when, for some reason, Daniel flinched. Not just a small startled twitch, but a sharp, full-body jerk. His shoulders tensed, his hands curled slightly at his sides, and for a fraction of a second, his eyes weren't on me. Are you okay? I asked casually, glancing at him over my shoulder. He blinked, the stiffness in his body vanishing as quickly as it had come. Yeah, he said, his voice smooth, just spaced out for a second.

I searched his face, his movements, the little details of him, the way his lips felt warm against my skin, the familiar sound of his bare feet padding against the tile, the casual way he leaned against the counter as he took his first sip of coffee. This was Daniel, my husband. I was letting my imagination get the best of me. But still, Hey, I said, forcing my voice to sound light, teasing. You didn't leave me a love letter back, huh?

He raised an eyebrow, mid-sip. Love letter? I hesitated. The one I left at your office. For a split second, just a fraction of a moment, his expression didn't change. Then, too quickly, he smiled. Oh, yeah, sorry, I meant to say something. That was really sweet.

I forced myself to smile. Well, did you like it? Of course, he said, taking another sip of coffee. Best part of my day. I nodded, pretending to be satisfied with his answer. But I knew he was lying. If he had actually read the letter, he would have said something about the inside jokes,

about the memories I'd written down, about any of the personal details that made the letter special. That's what he had always done. Some of our inside jokes were played simply because he had mentioned them so much, and he loved it when I brought them up myself. I swallowed hard, glancing down at my phone. Work. I had to get to work.

I had to let this go. That evening, we sat on the couch watching TV, just like we always did. The warmth of his body was familiar. His arm draped lays in the day. Laisley over the back of the couch, fingers grazing my shoulder. To anyone else, it would have seemed perfectly normal, perfectly safe. But the letter sat heavy in my purse, the words echoing in my head. I couldn't stop thinking about it.

So, after a while, I turned to him with a grin, keeping my voice light. Hey, remember when we first met? He blinked, caught off guard. You're testing me? He asked, laughing softly. Maybe, I teased, nudging his arm. Come on, you better remember. He smirked, tilting his head like he was thinking.

It was in college, right? Second year. I remember these things. You know this. June 28th, I felt my chest tighten. My husband was forgetful with dates. That much I knew. But I knew this specific date was important to him.

In fact, it was such an important date. He'd inked it into his skin. I forced out an exaggerated gasp, smacking his arm playfully. Of course you remember. He didn't glance down. He didn't laugh. He just smiled at me Now I knew for certain

That this wasn't my husband Tomorrow I had to get out The next morning I did everything exactly the same I woke up before him Brewed the coffee Kissed him on the cheek

And told him I had a long day ahead He smiled at me like always A perfect effortless thing The way he always heard He ran a hand through his dark hair, sit his coffee, and told me to have a good day. But as I grabbed my purse and stepped outside, I forced myself not to hesitate. I drove the same way I always did, following my morning route, taking the usual turns, sticking to routine just in case.

But once I was out of sight of the house, I turned the opposite direction. instead of heading toward my office. I drove straight to Daniel's law firm, gripping the steering wheel so tightly, my fingers ached. I don't know exactly what I was expecting. Maybe to walk into the building, see him at his desk,

laughing with his co-workers, proving that this was all just some elaborate misunderstanding, that the letter had been a joke, a mistake, something stupid and explainable. Maybe I wanted to see the normality of his work, space to remind myself that the man who came home to me every night really was my husband.

But deep down, I already knew that wouldn't happen. The receptionist looked up at me from behind the desk. Hi, I said, forcing a smile. I'm just dropping by to see my husband. The woman's brow knitted together slightly. And for a moment, she just looked at me as if I had said something confusing. something she couldn't quite make sense of. Then, after a beat, she gave me a small, gentle smile.

One, I immediately hated. What's your husband's name? She said, her gaze fixed on the monitor in front of her. Daniel, I muttered. Oh, honey, she said softly. He hasn't been here in weeks. The words felt like a slid. flap. My breath stalled in my throat, my heart stuttering violently against my ribs. My fingers

tightened around the strap of my purse. What do you mean? That's, um, there has to be some mistake. He works here. He comes in every day. The receptionist's face shifted slightly, uncertainty flickering behind her eyes. She hesitated, then let out a slow, breath. I'm sorry but no one's seen him in a long time. He thought maybe he took another job and just never told us. His things are still here but... She shook her head. I really don't think he's been in. Something in me felt like it was folding in on itself. My vision narrowed slightly as if the entire world had tilted sideways and I was struggling to stay upright. Can I can I see his office? I asked. The receptionist gave me another uncertain glance, but nodded.

She led me down the hallway, past the rows of desks, past the open offices where people typed away their computers, where conversations hummed in the background. All of it normal. All of it completely detached from the fact that something in my life had cracked open into something monstrous. We stopped in front of a locked storage room. She hesitated, placing a hand on the handle, as if she wasn't sure she should be showing me this. Then, in a quiet voice, she said, his things are still inside. We thought he just quit one day and never told anyone. My stomach felt hollow. The woman turned the knob, and the door creaked open. Inside, every. Everything was untouched.

His work bag sat on the chair, the strap slightly askew, like he had tossed it there with the intention of picking it up again soon. His coat hung on the wall, neatly pressed, not a single sign of dust or rage. On the desk, a pile of unopened males sat undisturbed. I stepped forward, slowly, the air thick around me, pressing down on my shoulders like a weight I couldn't shake. And then I saw it. A single sheet of paper placed neatly in the centre of the desk.

My name was written on the top. My hand shook as I reached for it. The moment I touched it, I knew. The handwriting was his. If you're reading this, I'm still here. Something else took my place. It knows everything I was his. I know. It acts like me, but

it isn't me. I don't know how long I have left. I messed with something I shouldn't. It's afraid of fire. I love you. My vision blurred slightly. I wanted to collapse,

to let the panic finally crash over me, to break down the way my body was begging me to. But I didn't. Because now I knew. It wasn't about understanding what had happened. It wasn't about figuring out where Daniel had gone or what had taken his place.

It was about stopping it. I folded the note carefully, sliding it into my pocket. Then, without another word, I turned and walked out of the office. I wasn't going to run. I was going to burn it alive. The house was dark when I pulled into the driveway. Its windows staring back at me like empty eyes. The porch light was on, casting a soft glow across the steps.

And for a split second, everything looked normal. But the moment I stepped inside, I knew it was waiting for me. It stood in the centre of the living room, perfectly still, its hands resting at its sides. The expression on his face was one of casual curiosity, but there was something wrong with it, something in the way the corners of its mouth stretched just a little too wide, the way its eyes followed me without blinking. Where have you been? it asked, Daniel's voice. I forced the smile, shrugging as I shut the door behind me.

Nowhere important. It didn't respond. right away. It just watched. The air felt heavy, thick with the weight of what I knew was coming. Every instinct in my body screamed at me to run. But I didn't. I couldn't. I couldn't. I had to see this through. So I walked past it, moving toward the kitchen, my pulse hammering against my ribs. Its head turned slightly as I moved, but we're acting different tonight, it murmured. I laughed softly, keeping my voice light. Long day.

The thing smiled at that. I clenched my jaw, pushing down the growing nausea curling in my stomach. I couldn't let it sense my fear. Not yet. I made it to the kitchen without breaking my stride. The bottle of whiskey was already within reach, sitting on the counter where we always kept it. I grabbed it. The thing's smile didn't falter.

But something changed. A shift in its posture, a slight tilt of the head. And then, in a voice that was almost concerned, it asked, What are you doing? I didn't answer. I unscrew the cap. Turn the bottle over and poured. The dark liquid splashed across the floor, soaking the old wooden panels, spreading in uneven puddles toward the living room.

The smell of alcohol filled the air, sharp and potent. The thing's expression finally faltered. Its voice darkened. Stop. I didn't. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the lighter. The click of the flint wheel sounded deafening in the silence. A single flame flickered to life.

The thing's mouth twisted into something unnatural. I couldn't help but flinch. You don't want to do that, it said softly, but I did. I flicked my wrist, dropped the flame, and the fire erupted. The fire surged forward, swallowing the floor in hungry waves, licking up the walls with greedy fingers. It rushed outward, creeping up anything in sight. Heat exploded against my skin, and in the middle of it all, the thing screamed in rage. Its body convulsed, twisting violently, as if something beneath the surface was trying,

to break free. Its skin peeled away in strips, revealing something underneath that wasn't flesh. Blackened appendages stretched, elongating, writhing like smoke. Its hands curled into a strange amalgamation of shapes and colors, skeletal in nature, but not quite. The suggestion of a head buckled and cracked, folding in on itself, the remnants of its features disassembling like shattered porcelain, it lunged at me. I stumbled backward, barely dodging as one of its limbs whipped toward me, missing by inches. The fire spread fast, swallowing the walls, curling around the windows, devouring the curtains. The heat was unbearable now, choking the air, stealing my breath. The house was collapsing. I turned,

and ran. I didn't stop, not when the walls groaned and cracked, not when the ceiling above me shuddered. The front door was only a few steps away. I could make it. Behind me, the thing was screaming, but I didn't look back. I threw myself outside, hitting the pavement hard, rolling onto my side, gasping for air as the heat roared behind me. I lifted my head, just in time to see the roof cave in, flames bursting through the structure, sending embers flying into the night. The fire consumed everything, turning my home into nothing more than a funeral pyre for whatever had taken Daniel's place, and the thing inside kept screaming.

Until finally, silence. long time, all I could hear was the fire. The flames hissed and crackled, devouring what was left of my home, filling the air with thick, choking smoke. The heat pulsed against my skin, even from a distance. I sat there on the pavement, my chest heaving, my fingers digging into the ground. My body ate from the fall, my lungs burned from the smoke. Movement. A shuffling sound, barely audible over the roar of the fire.

My stomach clenched as I whipped my head toward the house, my breath catching in my throat. A shadow was moving inside the flames. Staggering, I froze, unable to breathe, unable to move. My hunts trembled as I pushed myself up onto my knees, my entire body bracing for whatever was coming. But then, Daniel stepped forward. His clothes were scorched, his face smeared with soot, his hair a mess of ash and sweat. But his eyes, his eyes were his, the same warm brown that I'd memorized a thousand times over. My real husband, I could tell at a glance.

He took one more shaky step before his knees buckled, his body giving out, collapsing onto the pavement. I barely had time to think before I was running to him, my heart hammering against my ribs, my hands grabbing his shoulders, his arms, his face. Tears blurred my vision as I cupped his face, my fingers trembling against his skin. I swallowed back the sob, choking in my throat. forcing my voice to be steady. For a moment, neither of us said anything. His breath was weak, barely there. My grip on him tightened, desperation clawing at my chest.

But then... He smiled. College, he rasped. First year orientation. Sarah introduced us. His voice was hoarse, but sure. You were wearing that. ugly red sweater. A sob broke from my lips. I pulled him against me, bearing my face into the

crook of his neck, sobbing against his skin, clutching him like if I let him go, he would disappear again. His arms were weak, but he wrapped them around me anyway, holding on with everything he had left. The house burned behind us. The doctors said it was a miracle. Minor burns. smoke inhalation, nothing worse. I sat beside his hospital bed, my fingers wrapped tightly around his. His hand was warm, solid, his. Every so often, my grip would tighten just to make sure he was still there. And every time, he would squeeze back. The first time he woke up, he turned his head toward me, his eyes heavy with exhaustion, but clear. Hey, he murmured, voice hoarse.

I smiled, even as my eyes stung with unshed tears. Hey, his lips curved into a small, tired smile. You look like hell, a laugh tumbled from my throat, shaky but genuine. Yeah, well, I sniffed, swiping at my eyes. so do you